The Vanishings
by clairenbearen
Summary: In one moment, the entire world shrinks. People disappear out of their clothes. There's a lot of screaming and chaos. In other words, hell on Earth has begun. [A rewrite of the LBTK series]
1. The Caged Lion Roars

There was an art to sneaking in past curfew, and if Judd had mastered any kind of art in his life, he had mastered the art of sneaking in. When he turned into his neighborhood, he slowed down enough that the car drifted into the driveway, and as he parked the truck, he would look into the windows and see which light his parents still had on. Usually, they waited for him in the living room, so he would sneak in through the back door – which did creak, but he had figured out a way to get past that – and creep upstairs, change into his pajamas, and head back downstairs to ask what his parents were still doing up.

His parents, however, knew better than that.

When Judd pulled up in the driveway that Saturday night, he saw the lights on in both the kitchen and the living room, and he groaned, resting his head against the steering wheel. With one parent in either room, there was no doubt that his ass was in the sling, so he might as well get out of the car and face the music.

He sighed heavily, grabbed his jacket, and turned off the truck. _I just wish I was sober. It would make things easier on me._

Judd entered the house through the front door, and his mother sat in her chair, arms crossed, lips pressed in a thin line, and eyes narrowed. He bit back a groan and placed the keys in the little bowl by the front door.

"Where have you been, young man?"

He waved a hand, trying to dismiss the question, and slipped out of the living room, only for his father to step out from the kitchen and block his path. "Dad, come on, I'm tired –"

His dad, though shorter than Judd was, was no less intimidating. In fact, if Judd had to take his pick between his mom biting his head off or his father disappointedly shaking his head, Judd would take his mom.

"Judd, where have you been?"

Judd shrugged and scratched the inside of his forearm. "I don't know, Dad, what do you want to hear? I've been where I said I was going to be, and I stayed longer than expected. Now can I just go to my room?"

His mom stood up from her chair and leaned against the door frame. "Judd, that doesn't answer any of our questions. You said you would be at the library."

"So I stayed longer than expected."

"The library closes at ten on Fridays."

"So I stayed at the library until closing, then drove around to find myself some dinner."

He could see the tears in his mother's eyes, but instead of crying, instead of screaming and shouting at him, like he truly wished she would, she just sniffled and shook her head. "You were with those friends of yours, weren't you? Where was the party?"

"There was no party, Mom, I can promise –"

"Judd, you must think we're idiots."

_Kind of, yeah, I do._

His mother reached out and gently touched his arm. "Your eyes are bloodshot. Are you high?"

Now, the thing was, Judd knew that he did some pretty illegal shit. He knew that drinking underage was pretty bad, he knew that driving under the influence risked the lives of many, he knew that sleeping with a senior college girl when he was only sixteen was really, really sketchy, but he didn't typically care about any of that. The college girl was the second best girl he had ever slept with, and he loved the way beer tasted. He would recognize his faults. But he didn't do drugs. That was where he drew the line.

He shook his mother's hand off of him. "Mom, are you fucking insane? I haven't touched –"

"Don't talk to your mother that way!"

"I'm trying to tell her that I'm not high, Dad! I haven't been high since –"

"Since what? Since you crashed the car into a tree and got yourself damn near killed?" His father's voice was quiet, vibrating with anger. "We have the right to ask if you're high, Judd."

Judd sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "That was seven months ago," he said quietly. "I haven't even touched a joint or bong since then. I go to those meetings. I'm clean."

"Then, Judd Thompson Jr.," his mother said, "pray tell, why are your eyes bloodshot?"

No matter what he said, he was screwed. His father was close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. His father was usually the one to clean up his hungover messes. His father knew, and he would be punished either way.

He sighed. "I'm drunk. I had a few too many at the party."

"And you drove home?!"

"Of fucking course I drove home, you guys are fucking Nazis about curfew and getting your precious car back to you!"

"Don't –"

"– talk to my mother that way, yeah, I fucking _know!"_ He pushed his hands through his hair and pressed his back to the wall. "Do you realize that I would call a fucking Uber if you guys let me?"

His dad gripped Judd's shoulder, not as a threat, not as a warning, but as a tether. "Do you realize that you could have killed yourself and others trying to drive home? Just how drunk are you?"

"I'm not that drunk!"

His dad chuckled, but it lacked all trace of humor, and Judd startled when he saw the rage in his father's eyes. "Right, yeah, 'not that drunk,'" he echoed. "And which girl did you sleep with this time? The college girl that we could press charges against? Another older woman? Please, do tell."

"Why the hell do you think I've slept with anyone?"

"It's always the same with you, Judd. You think you're better than everyone –"

"Shut up, Dad. You didn't answer my questio–"

"Don't you _dare_ talk to me that way!"

When his father bellowed, Judd shrunk back, ducking his head. He chanced a glance at his mother, who no longer held back her tears, just looked at him in disappointment. His father's face was red. And Judd knew when he was beat.

He swallowed heavily. "I'm, uh," he said, scratching his eyebrow, "I'm going up to my room. I'll try and sober up."

"You do that," his father spit at him venomously. "And think –"

"Think about what I've said and done, yeah, I get it. I just – sorry." As Judd climbed the stairs, he saw his twin siblings cowering on the top landing, holding each other and crying.

He felt like a piece of shit.

* * *

The usual punishment was an extreme grounding, no phone, no car, and church. Church was expected from his family, but he had been able to weasel his way out of it under the excuse of "I have a lot of tests to study for," but his parents no longer trusted that excuse. They would drag him out of his room by his ear, while he was literally kicking and screaming, and the only thing that ever got him to stop was his little brother looking at him with tears in his eyes.

That night, after he passed his siblings on the landing, he slammed his bedroom door and tossed his jacket on his bed. His head already pounded with the threat of a manifesting hangover, and he groaned, pushing his way to the bathroom, turning on the faucet.

He just wanted to get the hell out of here. He wanted to make his own decisions. He wanted to be able to stay out as long as he wished and come back in without the threat of being yelled at whenever he stepped foot in the house five minutes late.

He was sixteen, going on seventeen, and he could make his own decisions. He knew that, if he was going to be forced to do anything with his life, he was going to be a doctor. He didn't want to study that much, but he could. He liked the idea of being Dr. Judd Thompson, in a place where people didn't know he was a "junior" or that he screwed up his youth.

The cold water on his face didn't help, and he knew he still smelled like alcohol and sex, so he stepped back, turned on the shower, and stripped off his clothes.

He'd snap the redhead girl he slept with later. Warn her that his parents weren't going to let him touch his phone for the rest of the weekend and they'd only give him a flip phone for school in case of emergencies.

As for now, he was going to get rid of the image of his crying siblings from his brain.

* * *

The only exception Judd ever got for his "no electronics, no car, no fun" punishment was his weekly Thursday night movie nights with his little siblings. Each week, Piper and Philip took turns choosing a movie for the three of them to watch. Both of them were currently on their Scooby-Doo hyperfixation, so Judd had changed their ringtones on his phone to the theme song of "What's New, Scooby Doo?" and "Scooby Doo, Where Are You?"

After staring at his wall in protest for three hours after school, Judd slowly creeped down the stairs, tucking his hands into his sweatshirt pocket. "Mom?" he asked, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. "Is it okay if I watch Scooby Doo with the twins?"

His mom looked up from her dinner and nodded without saying a word. As Judd turned to head into the living room, his mom said, "Judd?"

He stopped and turned around, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something he'd regret. "Yeah?"

"Can you get the mail before you start watching tv? I'm busy right now and your father won't be in for another hour –"

"Why do I have to do everything?"

His mom raised her eyebrows, and Judd groaned internally. "Oh, you do everything in this household? When was the last time you made dinner? Or vacuumed your room? Or cleaned the toilets? When was the last time you did any of your chores?" She shook her head and resumed eating. "Judd, I'm not in the mood. You're grounded, and if you want to keep your movie time with your siblings, go get the mail."

Judd clenched his jaw and stormed out the front door without another word. As he flipped through the mail, he stopped at the edge of his driveway and furrowed his brow. "Why did Wells Fargo just send me something?" He looked around and lifted the envelope out of the stack and eyed it carefully. It was thicker than the rest of the envelopes, and he could feel the edge of a credit card in the envelope.

He was barely old enough to have a debit card, let alone a credit card. It was a mistake. It had to be.

Maybe having the same name as his dad wasn't the worst thing in the world, after all. Judd didn't believe in God – at least, not like the rest of his family believed in God – but he figured this was God's way of telling him to get away. Either way, if he was just making it up or if it really was God, Judd whispered a silent prayer and slipped the envelope into his sweatshirt pocket.

He was still grounded, but if he played nice, he could get ungrounded sooner than expected. He'd do double his chores tomorrow. Actually, that would be suspicious – he'd do two more chores than normal, and he'd start studying, and he would slowly work on running away. Yeah. That oughta do it.

When Judd walked back inside, he ruffled his brother's hair and walked into the kitchen. "It's all boring," he said, gently setting it on the counter. "Is it okay if I make some popcorn for Philip and Piper? I know their pizza hasn't come yet, but it does help with the mood –"

His mom narrowed her eyes at him. "Why are you suddenly in a good mood?"

He licked his lips and started picking at his palms. "Oh, I don't know. I mean, I always look forward to spending time with the twins."

His mom studied him for another moment before gesturing to the pantry. "You know they're going to want sodas. They can't have any until the pizza gets here."

He saluted his mom and sidestepped to the pantry, tearing open a package of popcorn. "Yes ma'am." Once the popcorn was in the microwave, he poked his head in the living room. "Hey, guys? You want M&Ms in your popcorn?"

"Yes!"

"Absolutely not!"

Judd rolled his eyes and grabbed another package of popcorn and a bag of M&Ms. "How is it that they have literally spent their entire existence together and have such different tastes?"

His mom hummed. "Maybe the same way I birthed all of you, but only the twins listen to your father or me."

He winced. "Touché, I guess."

"You're going to church this weekend, Judd. And I want you to take notes over the sermon."

"That's not fair!"

His mom looked up. "Judd, I'm tired of fighting. I know you're not a Christian, and I know you don't care, but at the very least, it's time spent with family. Someday, you're going to want these times back. Just try to make the most of it."

The microwave beeped, and Judd pulled out a bowl and poured the first package of popcorn into it. He placed the other package into the microwave, pressed the timer, and emptied the M&Ms into the first bowl. "But why do I have to take notes?"

"Because it's the only thing that will keep you from falling asleep or thinking about how much you hate your father and me. Besides, I like to have notes over everything that was said, and your siblings can't write that fast. Do it for me, Judd."

The microwave beeped again, and he sighed heavily. "Fine. But I'm doing it under protest."

* * *

Philip fell asleep on Judd's shoulder and Piper fell asleep on his stomach. With great difficulty, Judd turned off the tv and waited for his dad to float through the living room again. When his dad stepped out to get a snack, Judd gestured for him to come closer. "Can you take Philip?" he whispered. "I don't want to wake either of them."

His father nodded and leaned over the armrest, slipping one hand under Philip's knees. Philip's head lolled against his father's chest, and once Judd could move without waking Philip, he picked up Piper and followed his father up the stairs.

Judd ducked into Piper's room, gently set her on her bed, and peeled back the covers. Once she was all tucked in for the night, he smoothed her hair, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Sleep tight, little sis. Love you."

When Judd straightened up, he found his father leaning against the doorway. Understanding passed between them, and Judd offered his father one nod before slipping out of Piper's room.

The credit card was still in his pocket.

* * *

While his siblings were on a four-day school week, Prospect High had not quite caught onto the idea of having a shorter school week, so Judd was stuck in school that fateful Friday afternoon. He still had the flip phone his parents gave him. He could still make the call.

During his lunch hour, Judd slipped out of the cafeteria and placed a call to the bank. The teller on the phone asked him the basic questions: date of birth, mother's maiden name, things like that. Judd was smart enough to know to deepen his voice, use his father's birthday, and give his grandmother's maiden name.

By the end of lunch, he was thousands of dollars richer. He had free use of the credit card, and it was too easy.

He almost forgot that he hadn't eaten lunch.

* * *

That weekend, he regained car privileges, but his curfew was much stricter: he had to be home by dinnertime, or else he would be punished far more severely. He got his computer and cell phone back and traded in the flip phone.

Judd nearly prostrated himself at his parents' feet, but he figured that would be going too far, so he just thanked them, grabbed his backpack, and told them that he would be going to the library.

For the first time since he started driving, it wasn't a lie.

Before Judd went to the library, he stopped by the ATM and withdrew about $250 in cash, stuffing the money in the secret compartment of his backpack. Once at the library, he pushed his way to the back, found a quiet study room, and slipped inside.

The lights were harsh on his eyes, and he winced to himself, wishing that he could do something about the fluorescent lights, but he was only here for a little while. A few people passed outside of his study room, so he pulled out his AP Bio textbook, and they nodded in understanding.

Fucking morons.

Once he knew he wouldn't be bothered, he flipped open to chapter 17, opened his laptop, and searched for flights to London, England.

He was getting the hell out of Mount Prospect, Illinois, and nothing – not even God Himself, if God really did anything – could stop him.

* * *

For some reason, when Judd got back from the library at 5:30, his box of Bible bee trophies was sticking out from underneath his bed.

He glanced over his shoulder and let his backpack fall from his shoulder. "Mom?" he called. "Dad? Pipe? Philip? Did any of you guys mess with my room?"

Philip poked his head in the room. "Piper and I were messing around with a tennis ball, and it rolled underneath your bed. We just went looking for it."

Judd rolled his eyes and tossed his backpack on his bed. "Then why don't you move stuff _back,_ Philip?"

"Because Mom was coming, and you know the rules about balls in the house."

Judd had to bite back a sexual remark, mostly because Philip wouldn't understand and because his mom was coming down the hall.

"You called?" His mom wiped her hands on a kitchen towel.

He waved a hand in dismissal. "I was just wondering if someone had been in here. Philip just lost something, that's all."

His mother pursed her lips. "If you say so…"

Philip grinned sweetly, far too much for what could possibly be labeled as innocently, and slowly shuffled out of Judd's room. "Yep. That's all I was in here for. And I found the thing! So, uh, see ya!" He lifted his hand in a little wave and darted back to Piper's room.

Judd's mom followed Philip with her eyes before turning back to Judd. "Was he playing ball in the house?"

Judd spread his hands in defeat, pushing his box of Bible bee trophies under his bed. "How would I know? I just got back home."

His mom laughed softly and shook her head, taking one step into his room. "Well, I do suppose it was my own fault for asking you."

He grinned and pushed a hand through his hair.

His mom bit her top lip and carefully pulled out his desk chair and sat down. "So, how was the library? Get any studying done?"

Truthfully, Judd hated going to the library. It was sterile and quiet, and he liked white noise and soft light and warm tones, but he wasn't going to tell her any of that. Instead, he shrugged. "It was alright. I mean, I spent a lot of my time studying bio, so I wasn't too big a fan. At the very least, I'm more prepared for the final."

His mom nodded. "Well, that's good! Are you going back tomorrow?"

Later, when Judd was asked what the most defining moment of his life was, he would always say this one. He might have backed out of his runaway fantasy, he might have broken down and told his parents if he spent time thinking about what he was about to do, but when he was presented with the opportunity to have the car again and continue with his deception, the answer was too easy. He assumed that it would have been an unquestionable no from his mother, but now…

He smiled and nodded slowly. "If that's okay with you."

* * *

There were some things that Judd just knew weren't real. He had known since he was three that Santa didn't exist because it just didn't make sense for him to be able to go everywhere in a single night, and he always did something that should have put him on the naughty list, but he ended up getting the presents he wanted anyways. Bigfoot, likewise, probably didn't exist. Neither did physical manifestations of ghosts.

Going with the theme of "things that weren't real" and the sermon of the year, Judd knew that the Rapture was never going to happen, mostly because it was never explicitly mentioned biblically, and he couldn't find where people thought it was going to happen. It was a theological concept.

Of course, if he wanted to get out of the country by Friday, he had to play nice.

His mother turned around, straining against her seatbelt and rested her hand on the console. "So, how did you all like church today?"

Philip and Piper just shrugged. "He used a lot of big words," Philip said, licking his ice cream.

Piper glared at him. "Maybe if you'd read a book once in a while, you'd understand what he said."

"Did you get anything today?"

Piper pursed her lips and looked at the floor. "No…"

Philip beamed, his ice cream dribbling down his shirt. Their mother glared at him. "See? I'm always right."

Piper rolled her eyes, and their mother turned her attention to Judd. "Judd? What did you think?"

"Um…" he nodded slowly, thinking of how to say _I think our pastor is a fucking idiot_ without losing his car privileges. "He sure knows what he's talking about. I have the notes you wanted, by the way."

It had been a long time since Judd had seen their mother as happy as she was that day. For once, her lips curved into a smile instead of frowning at him, and her brow was no longer wrinkled with worry or anger. She looked younger, and he forgot that she was only thirty-seven. It was kind of hard for him to remember when she yelled at him.

"Oh, you keep them, Judd. I'll look up the sermon later, if I missed anything."

_Well, fuck me._

"Thanks, Mom." As their dad pulled into the neighborhood, he cleared his throat. "Is it okay if I use the car to go to the library? I have to keep studying for bio."

"Didn't you study for bio yesterday?" Philip tilted his head all the way back, staring at Judd past his forehead.

Judd laughed softly and tousled Philip's hair. "I did, but I think I might want to be a doctor someday. I should know biology as well as I can."

His dad sat up straighter and locked eyes with Judd through the rearview mirror. "Really? I haven't heard about this before."

Judd shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck, unbuckling and leaning forward. Philip and Piper giggled. "It's a new development. Sorry I'm probably not going to inherit your business, but…" he gently tugged on Piper's braids and she stuck her tongue out at him, not masking the true anger that flashed in her eyes. He held up his hands in surrender. "Maybe Pipes here can take over for you. I know it's typically a father-son thing, but we all know Pipes loves this kind of thing."

Judd Sr. pulled the family car into the garage and chuckled. "I suppose you're right. At any rate, we have time, and you can have the car to go to the library."

Piper and Philip scooted out of the car, Piper grabbing Philip's ice cream before he could ruin his Sunday clothes any further. "Judd, I don't think you're gonna be a doctor. You have to work to do that."

He rolled his eyes and clambered out of the SUV after her. "I think you'd be surprised what I can do when I set my mind to it."

* * *

For the first time since he made up his mind to run away, Judd had second thoughts. After coming from his Marijuana Anonymous meeting – mandatory for him, his parents said – and holding up the chip that said he was seven months clean, his entire family celebrated with him. Philip stood on his chair and whooped as loud as he could. Piper squeezed his leg to death with the tightest hug she could manage. His mother hugged him with tears in her eyes – happy tears, this time, unlike the usual angry or disappointed tears – and pushed her hair away from her face, promising to make his favorite meal for dinner while he took it easy. Even his father hugged him and said past a gruff voice, "I'm proud of you, son."

_Don't be proud of me,_ he had wanted to say. _You don't know the worst of what I've done. I'm not worthy of that._

But he was seven months sober. At least, he was seven months sober of pot. Alcohol, well, even he recognized that he should work on that, and maybe it would get better when he got to London, maybe it would get worse, but all he knew was that he was tired. He wanted to step outside his room, find his parents' bedroom, and crawl into bed between them, not speaking, not moving, just laying there as each regret passed behind his eyes before he would finally turn on his back and tell them everything.

They were so fucking proud of him.

Before Judd got hooked on pot and alcohol, he didn't understand how big a deal it was for each individual baby step to becoming sober. He internally laughed at the people who had only been clean for a day or a week, wondering why it was so celebrated. Then he started smoking pot, and he couldn't stop, and he would drive his car with the passenger and back windows rolled down, and he would walk the hallways with the buzz in his head, and he would sneak out of class and into a broken bathroom stall, and he couldn't get enough and suddenly the front of the car was mashed into a tree trunk and his forehead was bloody and he couldn't remember his first, middle, or last name.

He faced the possibility of juvie, he faced the possibility of going to jail, even. And he was scared, he knew his parents weren't the type of people to just say "oh, he's a kid, he'll get more mature as time passes," and he was just so, so scared that he was going to jail and he was going to be alone and with all these criminals and he was just so _scared_ that he begged his parents to help him, that he was messed up, and all he remembered from that night was his mom smoothing his hair and his dad holding his hand and both of them saying how so, so glad they were that he was alive.

And maybe it was white privilege or rich privilege, but either way, Judd got out of jail or juvie time and instead did mandated community service that did not count towards service hours for various school clubs and programs. And every time he was on the stretch of road where he had wrecked his car, his body tensed up and his brain screamed at him "STOP STOP STOP _STOP"_ and he just wanted to set his garbage bag down and cry because he was just a kid, how the fuck did he get this far in over his head?

You'd think that the car wreck was enough to get Judd to quit pot, but it wasn't. It was a wake-up call, that was for certain, but he was addicted, and addicts don't just stop. He smoked less, and he took the bus to school after the wreck, so he was really only able to do it on weekends at parties. And he hated it, he hated that he couldn't remember a single name of the various girls he had slept with, he hated that he could hardly remember their faces or their hair colors, and he hated, he fucking _hated,_ that both of them were too intoxicated to make a reasonable decision and that neither of them were consenting under sobriety, and God, he felt like a piece of fucking trash.

That was when he decided to ask his parents for help.

His siblings didn't really know what was going on. They knew that there was something different about their brother, that he was no longer the person they looked up to. Whenever he tried to hang out with them – he was high, he was always fucking high – Philip would shake his head and push Piper into one of their rooms or drag her outside and give some excuse as to why he couldn't be a part of their game. They asked their mom what was wrong with Judd, and their mother – before she knew for certain, before Judd and the cops and the doctors confirmed – just said that Judd wasn't feeling himself.

And what was stupid was there was no _reason_ for Judd to get hooked; he just did. He wasn't in a poor neighborhood that saw oppression every day, he wasn't beaten or abused, all that happened was that he was bored and rebellious and a fucking idiot, and he hated himself, he hated himself so fucking much because he could have been driving with his siblings in the car when it crashed, he could have seriously hurt people, and even that wasn't fucking enough to stop him.

After Judd asked for help, his parents helped him research Marijuana Anonymous meetings, and he showed up, barely sixteen years old, twisting his hands in his shirt and shrinking into his hoodie. He mentioned that it was his first day to go without smoking, and they clapped, they were proud of him, and he couldn't be proud of himself. They warned him about withdrawals. He figured it wouldn't be too bad.

And then he was curled up after every meal, cramps and nausea passing in waves, and he held his stomach and groaned with a trash can by his bed, and his mom would sit by him and rub his back and he would choke on his tears because why the hell did she still love him, didn't she see what he had done to her, himself, his siblings? Why did she still love him? Why did his family still love him? Why were they still there, why weren't they fucking kicking him to the curb like he deserved?

And the withdrawals got worse, he got headaches the size of Minneapolis and he would yell at his family members and retreat into his room, unable to do anything but close his eyes and hope it would go away, but then he would fall asleep and he would jerk and twist and have nightmares about the police dragging him away, about a redhead girl with cigarette scars on her arms and she would say "I'm fine," and he fucking knew it wasn't, and he knew that he knew her, but when he'd wake up, shivering and sweating and crying, he couldn't tell you her name. He couldn't tell you anything except how much he wanted to smoke another joint, and his parents would hold him and squeeze his hand, and they fucking _loved_ him, and fuck, he didn't deserve it.

They were still proud of him, seven months later. And maybe it would have been easier if they had expectations for him: if they expected him to be clean every month and passed off each monthly and weekly and daily accomplishment, or if they expected that he'd fail. It would be easy to run away then. But they didn't expect anything of him, they only expected him to do his best in regards to being clean, and he did, he did his absolute fucking best, and that was all they asked of him, and he didn't know if he could do it anymore.

He was just a fucking kid, what the hell did he think was going to happen to him once he got to London?

* * *

He was leaving that day. After going to sleep and tossing and turning all night, he decided that he was going to stick with it for the time being. His parents would find out eventually – sooner rather than later, he supposed – and they would drag his ass back to the States, and he would get the lecture of the fucking century, and he wouldn't be surprised if they gave him every single punishment they could think of, including – but not limited to – the state penalty for identity theft.

Which led to Judd sitting on his bed, laptop on his thighs, as he furiously typed logged into his bank account. He knew how much money he had stolen, and he knew how to hack the bank just enough that the charges didn't show up on his father's account. Ten thousand dollars was hard to explain away.

Speaking of the ten thousand dollars he had stolen, if he was caught, and if his parents pressed charges – which he half-expected they would, once they found him in London – he would face up to fifteen years in prison. Likely, he would face around six or seven years in prison, if he went to trial, since he only took $10,000, but still. It wasn't like he wanted to go to prison. He just wanted to get away for a little bit. Breathe. Have some freedom.

"Whatcha doin', Judd?"

Judd quite nearly yelped and snapped his laptop shut, tucking it under his thigh. "Haven't you heard of knocking?"

"Mom said we could have movie night tonight since we were celebrating you last night. That was really cool!"

"Get out of my room." _Seven years is a long time,_ he thought. _It's a long time without seeing Philip. I can't get caught._

"Judd, can't we just watch a movie? You're done with school for the week!"

_More like done with school forever._ Judd resisted the urge to stand, knowing that Philip would dart across the room and open his laptop, and then he'd turn to Judd with a furrowed brow and ask why he was looking up identity theft. "Philip, get out. I'm not in the mood. I have to study."

Philip twisted his lips and crossed his arms. "You've been studying a lot for the past few weeks. Can't you just take a break? Piper and I really wanna see this new mov–"

Judd rolled his eyes and growled. "I'm not taking a break. Just– Philip, get out of my room!"

"Why are you mad at me?"

"You won't get out of my room, that's why!"

As if he _wanted_ to further annoy Judd, Philip took another step into Judd's room. "Judd, I have a question for you."

Judd lifted his eyebrows, staring over the rim of his glasses. "Will you get out if I answer it?"

Philip shrugged, unbothered by Judd's twitching arm that threatened to grab his signed baseball and send it towards his head. "Maybe. I might have a follow-up question or two."

"Fucking spit it _out,_ Philip Roy."

Philip narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw, and Judd felt a stab in his heart. That was the same look Judd gave most everyone in his family, especially when he had started smoking and had to go without for a few hours. Philip was starting to look more like him, and Judd just– Philip needed to be better than him.

"Don't use my full name."

_It's not worth it; you're leaving tonight, you don't want to leave on bad terms with the twins._

_**Except you kind of already are, you're leaving on movie night and ditching them.**_

Judd, instead of fighting, just waved a hand. "What is it?"

"Were you ever a Christian?"

Judd scoffed, thinking, at first, that Philip was joking, but one glance at Philip's crystal-clear eyes, devoid of all humor, silences his laughter. He clears his throat. "No," he admits, "I was never a Christian. I think God does exist, and I'm not lying about that, but I just– I wasn't ready for that big a life change. Maybe I'll do all the right things later, but I just can't right now. Does that make sense?"

Philip blinked and shook his head. "Nope. If you believe all –"

"Phil?" Judd plastered a strained smile on his face. "I don't need a fucking sermon. Don't give it to me."

"Judd, do you realize what you're doing to Mom and Dad?"

_I'm going to be late for my flight._ "No, Phil, please tell me. It's not like I don't realize that I'm the family disappointment or anything."

"Are you smoking again? Are you going through withdrawals?"

"Why the fuck would you think that?" Despite his promise to stay sitting, Judd stood so quickly that his laptop fell to the ground. "I wouldn't touch a fucking joint if you _paid_ me!"

"You acted like this the last time you were going through withdrawals!"

"I'm _tired,_ Philip! Now get out of my room!"

Philip shook his head slowly, and Judd could handle his parents' disappointment, he dealt with it nigh daily, but seeing his brother, all of nine years old, shaking his head with pure disappointment and sadness damn near broke him. If he was uncertain about his decision before, Philip just reaffirmed it.

"Mom cries about you, you know?"

"Out!" Judd gripped Philip's shoulder and pushed him out of his room, pulling the door closed and locking it before Philip could try to get back inside.

_It's not too late. Seven years is a long time, you can back out, you can just call it quits and admit to your parents what you're about to do. You can make up with Philip and Piper and have movie night. It's not too late._

He pulled out all of his textbooks from his backpack, shoving all of them underneath his bed. He put most of the cash in his sock, grabbed a couple of shirts, jeans, underwear, and socks, and shoved them into his bag. He checked that there was enough room, then he grabbed his computer and chargers, shoving them into the remaining space.

He was really doing this. He was really running away.

His brain shut off, and he hurried down the stairs, and he remembered that his mouth formed words and he told his mom that he was going to study some more for bio because of his newfound desire to be a doctor, and she said that would be okay, and he shrugged his backpack higher up his shoulders, and Philip just crossed his arms and glared at him, and Judd tousled his hair and promised him and Piper that they would have a movie night when he got back, maybe even that same night if Mom would allow it, and Mom smiled as the twins immediately turned their attention to her and begged her.

He remembered lifting his hand in a wave and grabbing the keys from the bowl by the front door. He didn't remember crying on the way to the airport, but based on his puffy eyes and the way they stung as he parked, he probably was.

He was going to be fine. He was a big kid. He could handle anything.

* * *

His biggest fear was that his flight would be delayed or cancelled entirely. His leg jiggled up and down, and he wiped his hands on his jeans. A few of the older passengers glared at him, and he smiled in the most convincing manner he could manage before he pulled out his passport and ID.

They weren't real. After consulting an old friend of his, he found this guy named Zeke Zuckermandel who made scary real fake IDs. It could even pass the phosphorus test, and when Judd raised this issue of concern with him, Zeke waved a hand in dismissal and said that he could get past that and damn, you're the first customer I've had who was ever concerned about the phosphorus test.

His heart raced when he went through security, and it raced now, as he continued to glance at the gate.

Finally, they called everyone to board, and Judd found his way into the 747, settling in his assigned seat next to an older man. Judd just nodded at him, and the man nodded back, and Judd pulled out his laptop to make it seem like he was an Adult, but he felt like a kid. He felt like a stupid, scared little kid who was throwing the biggest tantrum of his life.

He opened his tumblr account, pressed the **text** button, and started ranting about the decision he had made, the pros and the cons of it, but once the flight attendant passed by their row, he hung his head, shut his laptop, and gritted his teeth.

_I can do this,_ he tried to tell himself.

_I can't do this,_ he reminded himself.


	2. Rebel Without a (Good) Cause

"God, fuck you, Dawn! Fuck you!"

Vicki Byrne flinched when the screen door slammed shut. Her father's footsteps fell heavily upon the floor, causing their home to creak and groan. Even though it was early and they all should still be asleep, Vicki gently slipped out of her bed and grabbed Jeannie, whispering for her to hide under her bed.

Sometimes, she cursed the small house they lived in. She cursed it because it declared their poverty, that they would never get out of this damn trailer park, and she especially cursed it whenever her mom had to go bail her father out of jail after a particularly nasty fight on Saturday night.

"Tom, I'm not in the mood. You need to stop getting in fights. It's not that difficult."

Vicki hated hearing her parents fighting.

"Oh, fuck off, Dawn, I was just trying to protect you! You don't know those guys like –"

One of the kitchen drawers was slammed shut, and Vicki wondered, briefly, how her mother could get so angry. "Like you do?! Jesus, Tom, you all are the same! You flirt up a storm, and you get girls in over their heads, and then you do whatever the hell you damn well please! You've never changed! Don't give me that bullshit of 'protecting' me!"

Her mother cried out, and Vicki shrank against the wall. If her mother didn't stop arguing, then her father would come into this room, and there was nowhere else to hide. If she and Jeannie tried to slip out of their room and outside, away from the fighting, there was no way their father wouldn't catch them. She closed her eyes and exhaled shakily, hoping that her father wouldn't come in.

"I am protecting you!" her father shouted. "I am protecting the girls! I am doing what I know is right!"

_Then,_ Vicki thought, licking her lips, her body trembling, _why do none of us agree?_

"Is hitting me protecting me?! Is hitting me protecting the girls?! This isn't _right,_ Tom, and if I had the damn money to get a divorce and take the girls –"

Vicki heard her father's labored breaths and whimpered, scrambling over Jeannie's bed to close the door and push the desk chair under the doorknob. As she swung the door closed, her father wedged his foot between the door and the door frame, and Vicki gritted her teeth, trying to shove the door closed further.

Her dad grunted, pushed against the door with his shoulder, and leaned his weight into it. Vicki let go and tried to get underneath her own bed.

Unlike what she was hoping, her father didn't fall, instead tripping over his feet and regaining his balance in time to grab Vicki's ankle. She kicked and screamed, clawing at the floor, and when she found that would get her nowhere, she hooked her fingers into her bed frame above her head. "Let me go!"

There were a lot of things that sucked about being poor, she knew. She had to wear clothes that were either hand-me-downs from her brother or her mother, or she had to get them from charity drives that various churches organized. Occasionally, if she had the money, she could go to the thrift store with her mom and get something a little nicer, but she never had new clothes. It wasn't important, but she knew everyone at school knew that she couldn't afford anything.

She also couldn't read as well as her classmates. Her mother had some books – most of them were big and boring – but when Vicki had nothing else to do, and when her classmates would laugh at her for how slowly she read, even though she was in fifth grade, her cheeks would burn, and she would raid her mother's stash of books and read aloud until she messed up too many times and tears streamed down her cheeks.

Their home was small. They lived in a trailer park. Vicki constantly smelled like pot, alcohol, and cigarettes because the other families in the trailer park smoked pot, several people – including her father – spilled alcohol on her, and her father smoked in the house, causing her eyes to water.

But the worst thing, Vicki had decided, was that they couldn't afford a lot of food. The only time their parents agreed on going to church was for the Thanksgiving feast the churches nearby hosted. The food there was better than anywhere else, and the shelters didn't accept them because they weren't homeless, they were just poor. Most of the time, she hated it because the only meal she could count on was her school lunch five days a week, and that wasn't a lot to work with. Most of the time, she hated it because her stomach hurt and she was nearly faint with hunger. But now, right this moment, she hated that they couldn't afford a lot of food because that meant she was light, lighter than was probably healthy, and her father could pull her out from under her bed with ease.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled hard. She yelped as her fingers scraped against her bed frame, ripping some of the skin, and she twisted on the ground, kicking her legs in the air and swatting against his hands. "Let me go! Let me go!"

He leaned forward, and in her fear, Vicki slapped him as hard as he usually slapped them. Both of them froze. Vicki's mouth dropped open and her eyes widened with fear. Her father clenched his jaw, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and dragged her into the living room.

Vicki kicked against him, crying and holding his wrist. "Daddy, let me go! Let me go! Please, please, I'm sorry, please, I didn't mean to hit you! Just let me go!" The begging didn't work. The begging never worked. She tried to hit his wrist with one of her fists, but a man who had been beaten by the police could stand up against his fifty pound daughter. "Let _go_ of me!"

"You're gonna take my daughters away from me?!" he shouted at his wife. "You really wanna do that, Dawn?!"

Tears welled up in her mother's eyes. "Please, Tom, don't do this. Don't hurt the girls."

Vicki gritted her teeth. Her mother always did this. She always fought back when it was just her who was at risk, but the moment Vicki or Jeannie were the subject of her father's fury, her mom just tucked her tail and cowed. "Fuck you, Mom," she seethed. "Fucking do something, or don't beg."

Her dad growled and dragged Vicki in a half circle, shoving her against the couch. He finally let go of her hair, but he pressed his boot against her chest, pinning her against the couch. "How _dare_ you talk to your mother that way!"

She was tired of letting her father get the last word. She was tired of being a limp doll for him to beat. Her brother used to fight back. It was her turn.

Vicki lifted her chin in defiance. "I'm just taking after my sweet old dad."

For the first time in her life, her father's fist flying into her face didn't hurt as badly as it usually did.

* * *

When Vicki was old enough, babysitting became her saving grace. There were a lot of families in the trailer park, and a lot of said families wanted their free time to have sex, party, or drink. Vicki, though she didn't particularly respect the parents who would ditch their children like that, never said anything. Once she would get a babysitting job, she would tell her mother where she would be and how long. Her mother knew the trailer park system well enough to know that the time Vicki gave her was hit or miss, so she never worried when Vicki didn't get home by the time she said she would.

This realization hit her with a load of possibilities when her brother came back into town during the summer.

Eddie was nine years older than her, and he was the only child in their family who knew what it was like to live without fear of missing your next meal. He told her that their dad hadn't been that bad all the time; he used to be a good father, used to hold a decent job.

"Well, what happened to him?" Vicki had asked.

Eddie had looked outside their bedroom, at their father who had stood outside, a bottle of vodka in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Slowly shaking his head, Eddie had turned back to his sister. "He got hooked on drugs. You've never seen that, thank God, but that's when Dad got his first criminal record. He was in jail for four years, forced to rehabilitate. No one was gonna hire him for a drug record. We had to move here instead."

Eddie hated his mother more than he hated his father, and Vicki could almost understand, but their father was the one who hurt them all, the one who would drag Jeannie out by her hair and whip her with the belt whenever Vicki got smart. Vicki loathed her father and hated her mother. With Eddie, it was the other way around.

"She defends her goddamn family," he said, shaking his head, "even when they're beyond the scum of the earth. I fucking hate her. And whatever you do, Vick, don't turn out like her."

It scared Vicki when her brother talked like that. He never mentioned anything to Jeannie, who got the least of it all, thanks to Vicki's efforts. But she was tired. The only time she really enjoyed being alive was when she was babysitting the smaller kids in the park.

One night, during the summer, she was on her way home when Eddie ran into her. He grabbed her elbow, and without telling her what they were doing, he leaned down far enough to whisper in her ear, "When did you tell Mom you were going to be home?"

Vicki furrowed her brow. "I– I said I would be home ten minutes ago, but she knows that babysitting depends on how long the parents are gone."

Eddie nodded. "Okay. Good, I want to teach you something."

Vicki was scared. She stumbled over her feet, looking over her shoulder at her retreating house, until Eddie stopped in his tracks and pulled Vicki around to face him.

"Vick," he said softly, tucking her hair behind her ear, "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not Uncle Reid. I'm not Dad. You can trust me."

She licked her lips and nodded slowly. "What are you going to teach me?" She hated how quiet her voice was. Her hands shook, and she looked down and curled her hands into fists. They steadied.

Eddie, still holding Vicki's elbow, looked around. "You're tired, aren't you?"

"I mean, a little, I kinda wanna go to sl–"

He chuckled softly. "Not that kind of tired, Vick. Like…you're just done, right? You want to be away from home as long as possible? Life kind of sucks, right?"

She blinked quickly. "How did you –"

He waved a hand and slowly started walking with her. "I felt the same way when Dad was in prison. I couldn't really do much of anything. It got worse when we moved here, and Dad– Dad got better when you were born. Mom got worse. She was always upset, and she'd yell at Dad and me a lot. I think that if she hadn't yelled at us so much, Dad might be better."

_Dad wouldn't be better,_ she wanted to say. _Dad won't ever get better. Nothing is going to change, ever._

Eddie shrugged. "But living here has its perks. For instance, when you're tired of how much life sucks, there's a way to get rid of that feeling and to feel numb."

Vicki bit her top lip. "What's so good about feeling numb?"

Eddie grinned wickedly and pulled her behind one of the unoccupied trailers. A few older kids waved at them, and he pulled two rolled up pieces of paper and a lighter out of his pocket. "Here, take one," he said softly, moving her into the shadows, "and watch how I do it."

She didn't know how to hold it at first. Eddie pinched the roll between his fingers, stuck one end in his mouth, and lit the paper, holding it between his fingers like a cigarette. "Take a breath in," he told her, "no matter how big it is. Coughing is good. It'll hit good, but you might get nauseous."

Her fingers trembled when she held the paper to her lips, and he smiled softly, taking it from her and turning it around. "It's your first time, don't worry," he said past the joint in his own mouth. "No one gets the direction right on their first try. Now remember what I told you."

She nodded, eyes stinging with the smoke swirling around her. The other kids on the other side of the trailer were loud, and there were at least two people inside who were having sex. "Do I have to?"

"It'll help you sleep better tonight." Eddie smiled at her again. "I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, I promise."

Vicki inhaled shakily before putting the joint back in her mouth. Her brother lit it, and she sucked in, coughing as soon as she inhaled.

Eddie shook his head. "Good, good, Vick. You're gonna be nauseous in a second, but that's what I'm here for. You'll get used to it as time goes on, but for now, small breaths. Short breaths. You think you can do it?"

Truthfully, she didn't really know. If she could do what he asked of her, or even if she wanted to be numb, but she knew her brother. He was more a parent to her than both their parents put together. If he thought this was a good thing for her, it must have been.

She sniffled and nodded, putting the joint between her lips and inhaling again. "When will I know when it hits?"

Eddie grinned and clapped her shoulder. "Oh, you'll know." He sat on the ground, pressing his back against the trailer, and patted the dirt beside him. "Listen, Mom won't care what time you get in. We'll stay here a little while longer, and then we'll walk around long enough for the buzz and the smell to wear off, and then we'll go back home. She won't suspect a thing."

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall of the trailer. "I think I like this."

Eddie's grin was audible. "I'm glad you like it. I get some really good stuff up in Michigan, but I can't mail that to you guys. Mom or Dad might check the package first, and besides, the government is fucked up. They go through people's mail to make sure no one's mailing drugs, so I've gotta keep my head low and not mail you any."

Vicki pulled the joint out of her mouth. "So the only time I get to do this is when you're back home?" She pursed her lips and stared at the weeds growing in the dirt between her and Eddie.

Eddie lifted her chin and pointed to one of the older boys. He was around Eddie's age, maybe a little younger, maybe a little older, but he grinned wickedly and stood on a tree stump, holding a bottle of alcohol high in the air before bringing it to his lips.

"That's Jackson," Eddie whispered to her. "He deals a lot, especially in this neighborhood, and I can guaran-fucking-tee you that he's the richest goddamn person in this park. You want weed, you get it from him. He won't give you the good stuff just yet, you've gotta build up to that. But you got his face in your mind?"

Vicki pinched the skin on her palms, studying Jackson. He finished the bottle of alcohol, to the cheers of all his friends around him, and his eyes fell upon her. His smile grew. A small part of Vicki was uncomfortable, but another part of her – the giggly, spaced out part – thought he was sorta cute.

"I got it," she said, her stomach turning.

"Good." Eddie closed his eyes and took a hit. "He'll probably give you a good deal. You're young, your only source of income is babysitting. I'll put in a good word for you and maybe send you an allowance. Don't tell Mom or Dad, got it?"

Vicki giggled and took another hit. "Got it."

* * *

Smoking cigarettes was easier to pick up than pot was. The thing about cigarettes was the smell and the taste. She hated both those things, but she appreciated how much easier it was to get ahold of cigarettes than pot.

Jackson typically gave her the worst of what he had, but if she would kiss him, she generally got something a little bit better for the same price. Eddie's allowance didn't roll in fast enough, so Vicki resorted to other means to get the money she needed. She took on every babysitting job she could, sometimes cramming her nights so much that she would stumble back home at four in the morning, even without stopping to smoke pot or cigarettes. She always hated going home that late at night; when she had to, she would stick to the shadows and hurry between each individual trailer before she slipped into her own. Her mother had recently started caring where she'd been, and she would usually call the parents to see if Vicki had, indeed, been babysitting. Usually Vicki didn't get in trouble. Sometimes she did.

As much as Vicki loved smoking whatever she could get her hands on, her favorite thing was drinking. The next time Eddie came home after teaching Vicki how to smoke, he grabbed her hand, led her to the kitchen, and grabbed Dad's stash of alcohol. They slipped outside, behind the house, and passed the bottle between them. The drink burned on the way down, but she loved it. At first, she and Eddie talked excitedly, Eddie barely remembering to tell Vicki to quiet down or they'd have to move to one of the unoccupied trailers. She told him about how she started to develop a little crush on Jackson, how desperately she wanted to make him feel good, and – to his credit – Eddie growled, shook his head, and took a swig.

"Whatever you do," Eddie said, passing the bottle to his little sister, "don't fuck him. I'll try and find you another dealer in the park. Jackson's a good dealer, but he's a shithole of a person. Worse than the fucking rest of us. Don't get involved with him."

She licked her lips and took a strong gulp of gin. It hurt so badly that she had to squeeze her eyes shut against the pain. "But, assuming that I was older but still looked relatively the same, I'd have a chance?"

Eddie shrugged and took the bottle from her. "As long as you're a girl or have a vagina, Jackson will fuck you. Doesn't matter what your face looks like. To his credit, he doesn't go for little kids – like his standard is teenagers. I wish it wasn't the case, I wish the jackass would fucking be a decent person and only fuck people around his age, but I'm not his dad." He took a drink and knocked his shoulder into Vicki's. "Vick, please promise me that you're not ever – _ever_ – gonna fuck Jackson." He set the bottle down and held up his pinky finger. "Pinky promise."

She locked her pinky with his. "Pinky promise."

* * *

Jackson was the first guy she fucked.

Of course, she was (relatively) careful about it. She consulted one of her older friends, a smoking buddy of hers, who told her to wait a couple of days after her period ended to have sex. That was the only way she wouldn't get pregnant. And to wear condoms, but Vicki had the suspicion that Jackson had condoms on him at all times.

And she checked his age. She knew that if there was any chance that he could go to prison for fucking her, he wouldn't. So she found one of his friends, asked how old he was, and breathed a sigh of relief when his friend said Jackson was seventeen. She was thirteen. It would work.

Jackson knew she wanted to fuck him. Whenever she would make a pass at him, often running her hands over his biceps or chest, he would laugh mockingly and give her what she asked for. It didn't mean she stopped trying. It was just that the only time he agreed was when she didn't have the money – any of it – and was begging him for just one gram until her brother could send her more money or until someone hired her.

Jackson leaned against his trailer. He lived in his own, now. "I'll give you your normal order on one condition," he said, and it was enough for Vicki, and she loved it. She already knew he was a good kisser, that he could use his tongue well, but it was even better under these circumstances.

It was casual sex. No strings attached. He got sex, she got pot and sex, and the both of them were pleased with said arrangement. Vicki's frustration came when he would only accept sex as a method of payment when she _had_ no money.

She tried to get Eddie to stop sending her money. Eddie, the bastard, knew why she was asking and sent her more. Hell, he even wrote Jackson and told Jackson that he was making sure Vicki had enough to pay for her grass. Jackson was fine with it.

So Vicki turned to other guys in the trailer park. And when there weren't any guys good enough to fuck, she would fuck some of the girls. She would come home later and later, and her dad didn't really care, but her mom did. And when her mom started a fight, her dad would come out, and Vicki would go to bed with a few new bruises.

Jeannie cried at night. So did Mom. Vicki didn't really care. She just needed something – sex, pot, cigarettes, alcohol – to numb her. She was tired of this life. She wanted it to be over.

* * *

One day, when Vicki was sitting in the living room, high as a fucking kite, blinking at the opposite wall, her mother walked past. "Vicki, honey?"

"Hm?" Vicki blinked quickly. Had the wall always had speckles of yellow? Or was that just her vision swimming? They looked like little sunbursts.

Her mother opened the door. "I'm going to visit the Grants. Jeannie's doing her homework. Tell your father, when he gets home."

Vicki nodded. "Alright."

The door closed behind her mother, and Vicki blinked. The Grants. The Grants were one of the three religious families in the trailer park. They were the ones who had caught Vicki drinking behind their trailer once and called her mom, and her mom had greeted her with tears. That was the worst beating Vicki had had for years.

"Fuck the Grants," she murmured under her breath, curling up on the couch.

Though, not all of them were bad, she reasoned. Their son, Lucas, was a good kisser, and he would occasionally smoke a blunt with her. They'd gotten some over-the-clothes action before he blushed furiously and scrambled away.

Anyways. His loss.

As she drifted off to sleep, she realized something: her mom never called her "honey."

* * *

It started with the Grants and meeting once a week. Once in a while, Vicki would either be gone or at school when her mother went to meet them, so she usually avoided the daily recap. Jeannie wasn't as lucky. Vicki and her father knew these days and would spend an extra long time away from home, stumbling back only when it was dark or when they were too far out of it to make sense of anything else.

It started with the Grants, but it grew. The other religious families started hosting and inviting the Grants and Mom and Jeannie. Then it got worse, and suddenly, random ass people that Vicki neither knew nor liked were invading her home. She learned how to sneak out the window, but when the window broke in the middle of winter, her dad hammered it shut and made her swear that if she was going to sneak out, she was going to use something other than the window.

It started with the Grants, and it was once a week. Then it grew, and it was twice a week. Then it bounced around from family to family, and suddenly, it was every day. Vicki hated that it was every day.

When it got to be daily, Vicki snuck out of the house more and more. It was harder to get money for weed, so she cut back a little bit. She could score booze with a smile and a little bit of flirting, so she usually sat and drank with her friends.

It started with the Grants, and then it went to the daily Bible study. She thought it couldn't get any worse, but when her mother marched into her bedroom one Sunday morning, opening the blinds and allowing sunlight to pour directly into Vicki's face after a particularly hard night of partying, Vicki thought, _Maybe this is the worst._

Her mother dragged her out of bed, tossed her nicest clothes at her, and hid her mascara and eye shadow.

Vicki blinked wearily and tried to push herself up, but her arms felt like jelly, and she collapsed back onto her bed. "Why is the sun so loud?"

Her mom put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. "We're going to church," she said firmly. "No ifs, ands, or buts about it."

Vicki, in the middle of her hangover, managed a laugh that rang throughout her head. Jesus. "Yeah, well, I'm not going. Have fun."

Her mother grabbed her ear and hauled her out of bed. "You're going, or I will personally make sure you don't get to go anywhere for weeks. I will sit outside your room if I need to. I will take time off of work to make sure of it. Do you understand me?"

As she dressed, Vicki understood why her brother hated Mom. This wasn't the reason, surely, but Vicki knew for a fact that Dad generally let her sleep off her hangovers, believing that hangovers were enough punishment in themselves. Mom would destroy all the alcohol in the world if she thought it would stop either her husband, son, or oldest daughter from drinking.

Jeannie bounced from foot to foot, fingering the necklace Eddie had sent for her birthday. Vicki had had to go without some pot money for a month, but she didn't particularly mind, seeing as how she got a solid hour in heaven with Jackson. Honestly, she didn't even want the pot that badly, she typically gave it away to her friends for free, she just wanted to fuck him some more. And she knew he knew, but he didn't mind anymore. The price she had to pay was less about money and more about sex, anyways.

"Get away from me, woman!"

"You're going to church with the girls and me, and that's final!"

"And what if I don't? Hm? Are you going to drag me out of bed like you had to with Vicki? Well, I'm much stronger than the all of you put together, so you better damn well think of a better plan!"

Vicki blinked fuzzily and stood on her tiptoes, peering around the half-closed door. Her mother crossed her arms. "Tom," she said, and the tone was enough for him to growl and slowly climb out of bed.

"Don't you fucking threaten divorce with me. Doesn't your precious Jesus say not to divorce your spouse?"

Her mom turned as Tom shut the door loudly. Vicki jumped, glancing at Jeannie, but Jeannie didn't seem fazed. She smoothed her skirt and flounced over to the couch while they waited.

"The Bible said that in the case of sexual infidelity, divorce was acceptable. And domestic abuse. Which, as I recall, you're guilty of both. Get out of bed and come with me to church. It might do you some good. At the very least, you and Vicki will be sober for a couple of hours."

The decision was final, apparently.

She hated Sunday school. The kids in her class looked at her strangely, and she pulled her mother's blouse – which was far too large for her – more tightly around her middle and slid down her chair. The leader tried to get Vicki to read, but Vicki just shook her head and clenched her jaw, looking at the wall on her right.

She still couldn't read quickly or normally out loud. She still couldn't pronounce a lot of words, and God fucking damn it all, she was stupid and useless and she needed a drink this damn _second._

(Now let me tell you something about Vicki: she wasn't stupid. She was brilliant. She read the books her mother kept in her drawers, and she read over them again and again and again until she knew them well enough to know when there was a word she couldn't pronounce. When pot or alcohol or cigarettes or sex were scarce, she would grab one of those books, slip outside, and read to herself until the sun went down.

Victoria Byrne was not stupid. She was brilliant. Do not let her tell you anything different.)

(But, in her defense this time, 80% of the words in the Bible are hard to pronounce.)

Jeannie greeted Vicki after Sunday school, jumping from foot to foot, nearly bursting out of her skin. "Isn't church fantastic?" she crowed.

Vicki shrugged. "It's okay. Not my style."

Jeannie, unfazed as always, grabbed Vicki's hand and dragged her in the direction of the sanctuary. "Come on, it's time for big church!"

This wasn't, apparently, Jeannie or Mom's first time at this church. Mom saved spots in one of the middle front pews, and Dad sat with his arms crossed, glaring a hole into the wall while the worship team set up. Vicki had already resolved not to listen to the sermon, and based on her father's glare, he wanted nothing more than to block the sermon from his mind. His face softened slightly as Jeannie scrambled past him and into her mother's side with the biggest hug she could manage. Vicki just shrugged and slid into the pew next to her father.

Even though she had resolved not to listen to the sermon – wanting instead to determine how to seduce Jackson again, and who her second option would be if Jackson were unavailable – the pastor was too captivating not to pay attention. She didn't remember what he said, only that she couldn't concentrate on what she really wanted to focus on, but she caught something about how no one was past the point of no return, that Jesus was willing to forgive murderers and rapists, drug lords and Mob leaders, adulterers and liars, and she wanted to scoff because no one loved anyone like that, but when she glanced at her father to make some kind of crude joke, she was scared.

Her father was really, truly listening. There were tears in his eyes.

_God doesn't love you, _she wanted to say, _because if He loved you, He would love me, and He doesn't. No one does. If He did, I wouldn't be in this hellish existence, begging to die every fucking day of my life. Don't listen to him, Daddy. Daddy, don't listen to him. He's wrong._

But all that managed to make it past her lips was a strangled, "Daddy?"

Her father reached out and gently squeezed her hand. She licked her lips and looked around – most of the teenagers and other audience members were bored. The teenager sitting closest to her was drawing something on his note sheet. His mother glanced at him disapprovingly, but he didn't pay any attention to her, continuing to fill in the rest of his drawing. She rolled her eyes, plucked the pen from his hand, and passed it to his father. The teenager glared at her, crossed his arms, and twisted in the pew to face her.

Understanding passed between their eyes. He must have seen the fear that was hiding beneath her skin because his face softened, and his eyes bounced around until he found the exit he was looking for. Smiling softly at her, he mouthed, "Go," and nodded his head towards the exit.

Vicki took a deep breath. "I have to go to the bathroom," she whispered to her parents. "Like, really bad."

Her dad nodded, uncaring as always, but he patted her back as she slipped past him. Once in the bathroom, she locked herself in the stall and cried.

* * *

After church, Vicki slipped into her room, changed quickly, and hurried outside before her parents could stop her. Jackson wasn't responding to her, and she didn't care all that much, anyways. She wasn't in the mood to get high today; it was harder to hide a high from her parents than drunkenness was.

She met up with one of her friends, who was a year older than her, and he promised that they could go to a party that night. And not just any party – one that the high schoolers would throw. These were the rich kids. They had space for a lot of people, money to buy beer, alcohol cabinets that didn't contain a bunch of cheap liquor, and good drugs.

Drugs scared Vicki, though. When her friend told her, she forced a smile and asked if there would be anyone to sleep with. Her friend rolled his eyes and said, "Duh. The only question is if _I _get to sleep with any of the guys there. You're lucky, V."

She spent the day with them, twirling her hair around her finger, swinging her legs back and forth as she sat on the hood of his truck, and exactly one minute before she got inside, Jeannie bounded up to the truck.

"Vicki!" she said, gasping. She bent over, placed her hands on her knees, and gasped again. "I've been looking all over the park for you."

Vicki winced at her friend and slid off the hood of the truck. Jeannie couldn't want much, and even if she brought a message from her mom, Vicki knew that their dad didn't care. She could get in the truck and go away, but only once she knew her little sister was safe. Jeannie was the only one in their family who hadn't tasted alcohol on her tongue or breathed marijuana into her lungs. She didn't need that.

"Jeannie, what is it? Is everything okay?"

Jeannie looked up and beamed, grabbing Vicki's hand. "Everything's great! Mom and Dad want you back home right now, though. It's dark, and you and I have school tomorrow."

Vicki furrowed her brow and slowly followed her sister. "Wh– Jeannie, Dad has never cared about that."

She shrugged and twisted around again, now pulling Vicki along with both hands. "Maybe not before, but he cares now! And just think – if everything works out okay, we might get out of here! We might get a real home!" Jeannie squealed and stopped walking just long enough to throw her arms around Vicki's waist. "And maybe we can go to college, just like Eddie!"

_Eddie. Oh thank God, hopefully he doesn't buy into this. I need that money._ Vicki awkwardly patted Jeannie's back. "Jeannie, I was hanging out with my friends. Can't you just tell Mom and Dad that you couldn't find me?"

Jeannie slowly stepped back, her face fallen. She didn't let go of Vicki's shirt. "You want me to lie?"

_Shit._ "Jeannie, this is just– it's just a little white lie. I'll be back home soon enough."

"I'm not going to lie. It's against the Bible."

"Fuck the Bible!" Vicki squeezed her eyes shut as soon as she saw her little sister flinch, so she sighed softly and bent to be at eye level with Jeannie. "Jeannie, no one here pays attention to the Bible. No one cares. Everything we do is against the whole 'be a good person' thing the Bible tries to make out. And I really– Jeannie, I just don't care."

Jeannie's eyes welled up with tears. "Don't you care about us, though? You always told me to find something that made life a little bit better, but now that I have, you hate it."

Vicki sighed again and straightened out. "Jeannie, let me tell you a little secret that I think you're old enough for: everybody in this goddamned trailer park is going to hell," she said, "and that includes you and me. God doesn't love anybody here, and if He did, we wouldn't be living in this fucking hellhole!"

Jeannie sniffled and set her lips in a straight line scarily reminiscent of their mother. "I don't care what you say," she said, jerking Vicki back in the direction of their home. "I'm not going to hell. I'm not!"

"I'm glad you have that kind of confidence, Jean, just don't be surprised when we find each other in the same place after death." She tried to pull her hand away from her little sister, but Jeannie just tightened her grip and dragged her all the way back home.

_So much for that party,_ she thought.

Jeannie opened the door with one hand, wedged her foot between the door and the door frame, and dragged Vicki inside, giving her a final shove when it looked like Vicki was going to turn tail and run. Once inside, Jeannie closed the door and stood in front of it with arms crossed.

Rolling her eyes, Vicki started for her bedroom, hoping that some rest would get Jeannie off her back, but she stopped when she passed the kitchen. Her father paced the kitchen floor, rubbing his chin, and she held her breath, hoping that he wouldn't see her.

"Dawn, I– I just want to say that I'm so, so sorry for everything I've done to you and the girls and Eddie. I was so wrong, and I know that you can't forgive me, or that you shouldn't –"

Mom smiled softly and reached out to stop her husband from pacing. "Tom, all of us made our mistakes. And I hope you don't mind that I'm still a bit wary."

Dad huffed a laugh. "I'd be disappointed if you weren't. I did some pretty bad things to all of you." He cleared his throat and pulled out the kitchen chair opposite his wife, perching on the edge of it. "But I'm not going to do that anymore. I'm going to quit drinking and smoking. I'm going to turn over a leaf."

Mom propped her chin in her hand and reached for her husband's hand. "Now, Tom, no one said Christians can't drink or smoke."

He smiled sadly at her and squeezed her hand. "Except I know what I've been like drunk, and I know what my addiction has done to all of you. Maybe the Bible never condemns it, but I need to stop." He took a shaky breath. "Listen, I know– I know that, financially, we're in a really tough place, but I can't quit drinking and/or smoking without going to a rehab center."

Mom smiled wider and leaned over the table to kiss him. "I'm proud of you, Tom," she whispered, "and I'm fine with it if you think that's the best decision. I just want you to be the best that you can be."

_Okay, they are so preoccupied. If I can get to the back, I might be able to sneak back out._ As Vicki inched her way to the back door, her foot caught hold of the rug, and she tripped.

"Vicki!"

She winced internally and carefully pushed herself up. Her dad was right beside her, gently helping her up. "Sweetie, are you okay?"

Vicki frowned and pushed her hair away from her face. "Yeah, Dad, I'm fine. I'm just –" _Okay, so I'm definitely staying in for the night and probably the rest of my life._ "I'm gonna get ready for bed. There's nothing to do."

A question passed in his eyes, but he shook his head and beamed at her. "Hey, guess what, sweetie?"

_Seriously, though, where did the sweetie thing come from? I can't remember the last time Dad used a term of affection on any of us._ She tugged at her top. "I don't know, what?"

Dad backed up to Mom and squeezed her hand. "I became a Christian today, sweetie."

She didn't mean to laugh. Really, she didn't. She knew that Jeannie and Mom had become Christians, and maybe she could believe that they had, but her _dad? _With all that he's done to her? No one could really fault her for laughing.

"Yeah, right," Vicki said past her laughter. "That's a good joke, Dad."

Dad glanced at his wife and took a hesitant step towards Vicki. "I'm not joking, Vicki. I'm a Christian now."

Her eyebrows disappeared into her forehead. "Really? You?" She cleared her throat and looked around the room. Jeannie stared at her sadly, a frown on her normally smiling face, and her mother wrung her hands nervously. "So…do you really believe the Bible?" she asked.

It was the right thing to say. Dad beamed at her again. "You bet I do," he said.

And maybe it wouldn't have been so bad, and maybe she could have believed it, and maybe – _maybe_ – she could have let it be, but her eyes found the hole in the wall and the scratched coffee table, and the bloodstains on the ground, and she could feel the belt stinging her skin, and she could hear her mother's cries and Jeannie begging, and she couldn't believe it. No one could change like that.

Vicki smiled bitterly. "You know what I bet?" she said. "I bet you'll be drinking and cussing and fighting and losing your damn job again."

Dad's smile froze and slowly fell from his face. Vicki's mouth fell open, and instinctively, she looked at her father's hands. They curled into fists, and his entire body trembled with rage, and she choked on a sob. He wanted to hit her. He really, truly, desperately wanted to hit her.

But he wasn't. His feet were planted in the same spot, and he closed his eyes for several seconds, no doubt counting to ten.

She swallowed thickly and gestured for Jeannie to get back to their room. Mom slowly stood from the kitchen table, craning her neck to see what her husband was about to do.

When Dad opened his eyes, he flexed his fingers a few times and stepped towards Vicki. She lifted her chin and turned her face away from him, keeping him within her range of vision. He reached for her, and she flinched.

"Don't you dare touch me!" she screamed, her body trembling. She hated feeling like this, she hated being scared, and it sucked, it fucking sucked, there was a reason she was drunk or high every goddamn day of her life.

Dad took a shaky breath and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. "I'm not going to hit you, Vicki," he murmured. "I'm going to hug you."

Her body continued to tremble, but when her father wrapped her in his arms, she sobbed out loud and turned her face into his shoulder. He nodded and cupped the back of her head. "I know you have no reason to believe me," he whispered, "but I promise, I promise I'm never going to hit you again. And I'm going to do right by you all. Let me prove it to you."

_He didn't hit me,_ Vicki thought, eyes squeezed shut as she continued to cry in her father's arms. _Why didn't he hit me?_

* * *

Good thing she never put money down that her father would slip back into the same old lifestyle. She had, there wasn't a single doubt about it, and she had to find out how to sneak in and out of the house without either parent knowing. For the first month and a half after her dad became a Christian, it was easy; only her mom was at home, and Mom couldn't take care of everything, especially now that she was taking on more hours at work to help cover finances. Eddie sent home money to his parents instead, writing Vicki and telling her, "I'm sorry, little sis, but if Dad's getting clean, I'd rather send money to help the family rather than give you pot money. Don't sleep with Jackson, though. If you do, I'm going to fly home and I'm going to beat his ass."

Rehab worked, apparently. When Dad came home after that month and a half in the rehab center, he genuinely looked healthier and happier. He kissed his wife hello, he kissed Jeannie's head, and he nodded at Vicki – he knew that she wasn't willing to accept his love, not just yet, and he was willing to prove that he was changed for her.

Eddie came down once the semester ended, to help clean up the loose ends. He was more firm about her sneaking out than she would have expected, and one time, when he caught her elbow before she slipped out for a rendezvous with Jackson, she tried to jerk her arm away from him.

"Why do you all of a sudden give a shit about what I do?! You were the one sending me money to buy weed!" Vicki hoped – she hoped to fucking God – that her parents overheard.

Eddie set his jaw and tightened his grip. "Because Dad got clean, Vick! He's a good man, and you've never known him like that! I don't want you falling down the same trap, and I don't want you suffering what he had to! You're done. You are absolutely, so fucking done with pot." Before she could respond, he held up his index finger. "And don't you fucking dare try and sleep with Jackson. If you do, I swear, I'll call the cops and report him for statuatory rape."

Her eyes spit fire, and she pried his fingers off of her arm. "You wouldn't fucking dare."

"I never liked him in the first place, Vick. I warned you about him. You're the one who's gone on and fucked him! He's a shithole of a person!"

Vicki crossed her arms and smiled bitterly. "Oh, so like Dad, then?"

Eddie's jaw tightened. "That's not fair," he said lowly.

She threw her hands up in the air and started for the back door. "Why are you suddenly defending him? He's beaten me! Or do you not believe the scars on my back or the cigarette burns on my skin? Is that it? Do you want an excuse for your own behavior?"

Eddie closed his eyes, and Vicki gasped. He looked just like their father, the same rage simmering beneath their skin, the same way they curled their hands into fists and flexed their fingers to avoid hitting her. They were the same. He defended their dad because they were the same.

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "Vick, you're just like him," he said. "You're just like him. You have a heart of gold, but you numb it, you fucking numb it, and I fucking wish to God I'd never gotten you hooked on pot or cigarettes or alcohol. It was my own damn fault, and you shouldn't be listening to me!"

She smiled and waved at him. "Great, then I'm off to go meet my friends and tell Jackson you said hello."

Eddie growled and leapt over the couch, cutting her off before she reached the door. "You know what I meant. I was wrong, and– Vick, you need to get clean, okay? I promise that the path you're on isn't good for you."

She shoved him. "You're the fucking one who _got_ me on this godfucking path, you bastard!"

Vicki had known her brother her entire life. She knew that he was the one who taught her to read, even though they both knew they could get in trouble for it. During the day, he would lead her outside and sit on the steps, and he would point to each word, and she would try and pronounce it. She wasn't very fast, but he said that was okay, at least she was trying.

He was the one who would get between her and Dad when Dad was drunk or high, and the belt was lifted high in the air, and all Vicki could think was how much it was going to hurt and how much Dad hated them, but Eddie didn't let her believe it for a second. He took the hit for her. She got away with the pain until Jeannie came along; then she and Eddie were taking the beatings for her.

Eddie was the one who would skip dinner so that she could eat. He was the one who would sneak out at night, once he was old enough to drive, and he wouldn't go to parties, he wouldn't always go and get drunk or high, he would usually borrow a car and go to the nearest gas station or Wal-Mart or convenience store, and he would buy her something to eat, and he would crawl back in through their window and smile and offer her the food he had procured with all five dollars he had.

He was the only person in the world Vicki knew loved her, and now that everything was changing, she wanted the familiarity of knowing that Eddie was her rock. He was unchanging, completely predictable in most every way.

So when he shouted back at her, "Why the fuck do you think I fucking hate myself every goddamn day, Vick?!", she didn't know how to respond.

Eddie hated himself.

She hated herself.

Their entire goddamn family was filled with people who hated themselves, and she couldn't decide if it was funny or just plain sad.

Eddie blinked back tears. "Vick, the biggest regret of my life is introducing you to all that shit. I shouldn't have done that. I– I'm not Mom or Dad, so I can't _force_ you to stay in tonight, but please, please, at least give Dad a chance. I promise you, he's changed for the better. He's clean. He's going to AA meetings, and he's actively trying to make life better." He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed heavily. "I'm going to bed. If you're going out, just…please get home before midnight, okay? If for no other reason, then because I damn well am going to wake up when you get in, and I'd rather not be halfway through a good dream."

Vicki sighed. "He gets three weeks. After that, I'm calling it."

* * *

Once Eddie went back to college, Vicki resumed sneaking out, but one morning, she slipped in after staying the night at Shelly's, and as she closed the door behind her, she overheard her parents talking.

"A promotion?" her mom whispered excitedly. "Tom, this is– I can't believe it! A promotion?"

Vicki bit the inside of her cheek and peeked around the living room. Her dad nodded. "Yeah, and I get better pay and better hours. Just think: if I stay on this track, and if we pinch and save as much as we can, we might be able to get an actual house outside of here! The girls might get new clothes, not having to wear hand-me-downs, and we could afford books for them!"

Mom smiled. "You're going to spoil the girls for Christmas, aren't you?"

Dad blushed and played with Mom's hands. "I'm going to try. I'll ask Jeannie what she wants – I can't afford something big, like a flat screen tv, but I'll be able to get something for her. And I think I know what I'm going to give Vi–"

Mom put her fingers to her lips and pointed behind Dad's shoulder. Dad looked around for a moment, then twisted around in his chair. "You're home," he said softly.

Vicki nodded and shrugged off her jacket. "Yeah. I stayed the night at Shelly's. Their phone had been disconnected, so I couldn't call, but her parents can vouch for me."

Dad smiled and nodded. "I'm just glad you're safe."

As Vicki walked back to her room, hoping to take a shower and wash off the dirt of Jackson Trestley – her pot dealer turned near-rapist, the fuckwad – she took a shuddering breath. She used to never feel safe in this home, not even when Eddie was here. But now, now she knew that it was the safest place she could be, her father's arms were the safest ones in the entire trailer park, and she rejected it again, again, and again. She didn't deserve to feel safe; she numbed herself from the pain she was causing, and she would continue to do that until she ended up in a ditch, and even still, she knew her dad would find her, pick her up, and carry her to the nearest hospital, all while telling her, "_You're safe now, honey. I've got you."_

* * *

Vicki had made a decision concerning her father and his newfound faith: it was okay, she supposed, since it was that that got him motivated enough to get clean and stop hitting the rest of them. She could do without church, but on the days her parents managed to drag her out of bed and into the car, she usually found the same teen boy who saved her life that first time around, and she would try and sit closer to him. They wrote each other little notes, like how bored they were and how much they'd actually rather be at school – causing him to laugh out loud and earn him a harsh glare from his siblings and a pinch from his mother.

_What should I call you?_ she wrote one day.

He smirked at her, pushed his glasses up his nose, and wrote, _Just call me J._

_Fine. Then you can call me V._

He had to bite back a laugh at that, and when he was sure his parents were no longer watching him, he scrawled out, _JV. Like the level of high school sports? Get it?_

She slowly shook her head and sighed quietly, though just loud enough for him to hear her disappointment. _That was the worst joke ever._

_Not true, have you heard this preacher before?_

_Valid point._

After a few months, though, he stopped showing up altogether.

* * *

The first Christmas after her father got clean, she resolved that she would be sober on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and _then_ she would party twice as hard to make up for lost time. It was only fair that all of them were sober on the same day, though Vicki knew from experience that withdrawals were a real thing and alcohol was usually the one that got her the worst.

Either way, Jeannie bounced on her bed at seven in the morning on Christmas, and Vicki couldn't find it in her heart to be mad; it was Christmas, after all, and she remembered doing the same thing with Eddie, who would usually go and see if Dad was sober enough to wake up.

"It's Christmas it's Christmas it's Christmas it's Christmas!"

Vicki laughed and pushed off the covers. "Yeah, it is! And I got you a present this year. I think all of us did, but I think Santa came through."

Jeannie blinked. "Vicki, Santa's not real."

Vicki gasped sharply. "Who told you that?"

Jeannie giggled. "You did. A few years ago, when one of my classmates kept telling me Santa wasn't real." She crossed her arms and tilted her head to the side. "And besides, I'm ten whole years old. Of course I know that Santa isn't real."

Vicki shook her head and grabbed her robe. "Alright, then, let's see what we all got for Christmas."

When they stepped into the living room, Vicki was surprised to find that both parents were already wide awake. Jeannie squealed. "Is that bike mine?!"

Dad laughed softly to himself and took the coffee Mom offered him. "Sure is, munchkin. It's kind of hard to wrap, so I figured it would be your first present to open."

Vicki smiled softly and sat cross-legged on the floor. "Wow, this is quite a spread. Eddie couldn't make it?"

Dad hummed and shook his head. Mom blew on the steam coming from her mug. "His plane got snowed in, and he could barely make it out of the airport to go back to his apartment. He sends his love, though, and he promises to send your presents as soon as he can."

Vicki had scraped together enough money to buy Jeannie a new book from _The Boxcar Children,_ a small, plastic necklace for her mom, and though she honest to God hated it, a leather cross necklace for her father. When he opened his gift, he beamed, set it aside, and kissed Vicki's head. "I love it."

She swallowed around the rock in her throat.

Most of Jeannie's gifts were books, aside from the bike, and Vicki winced when she noticed all of them were used books; they looked to be in great condition, but there was a slight wear to all of them, and she tasted the bile of poverty once again.

Jeannie had made Vicki a braided bracelet, and as soon as she opened the package and saw what was in it, she slipped it onto her wrist. "See?" she said. "Fits like a glove."

Her mom had bought the first three books of the _Harry Potter _series for her, and when Vicki's mouth dropped open, Mom shrugged. "I know the kids love them, and it's a story, after all, and I think it must be a very good one. Besides, you can't start high school without having read at least the first few books."

Vicki thought nothing could top either gift her sister or her mother bought her, but her dad leaned forward when she reached for his. "Go on, open it."

She shrugged and slid off the tiny ribbon, and gaped when she saw an iPhone staring back at her.

"It's not the new model, I know, but it was the cheapest good version I could find," he said, rubbing his neck. "I hope you –"

She threw her arms around his neck. "I love it, Dad. Thank you so much."

She had been wrong about her dad, and for once, for once in her damn life, she was glad she was.

* * *

Vicki decided that high school, for the most part, sucked. Sure, the parties were great, and she found herself coming across J on more than one occasion (and damn, he knew what to do with every inch of his body), but she also realized, for quite possibly the first time, that her only way out of the trailer park was to get to college. It didn't have to be the University of Chicago or Harvard or anything like that, but she needed to get away. That meant good grades. And that meant effort on her part.

She resolved that she would reserve one night a week for doing her best on her homework and studying for the test of the week. When she started making it Wednesday night, because of the convenience of it, people teased her for joining the church crowd, so she switched her study night to Mondays. Every other night of the week, she'd snap whichever guy she was currently talking to and turn her phone off for the night.

Her grades were…okay. They could certainly be better, and she was barely scraping by, but she didn't think it was important. She had four years to make up for her bad decisions in her freshman year, and besides, the SAT was way more important.

Vicki climbed onto the bus one morning and sought out her one busmate. Claire Washington, or something like that, looked at her and smiled. "Would you like to sit here, Vicki?"

The other kids from the trailer park hated the black kids. They called them slurs, tossed whatever trash they could find at the backs of their heads, but Vicki couldn't bring herself to hate them like the rest of the kids hated them. They were people, too, and Vicki had spent thirteen years of her life believing that she was not worth much as a person.

Vicki smiled and nodded, slipping into the seat next to her. "Thanks, Claire."

She looked down. "It's Clarice. I don't mind it, but my mama better not catch you calling me Claire, or else she'll tell you, right and true, 'If I wanted her to be named Claire, I would have called her Claire myself.'" Clarice laughed to herself. "You should hear what my poor little brother goes through, with a name like Lionel."

Vicki wrinkled her nose in a smile. "Well, thanks, Clarice."


	3. Love Without End, Amen

**A/N: Hey, guys! I recognize it's been a long time since I last updated this rewrite. I do have the entire thing written (not the entire series, just this first book), but to be quite honest, I forget about sometimes ever since I moved to AO3. And full disclosure, I had a falling out with one of my close writer friends, which has tainted writing for me in general, so I'm recovering from that. I can't talk about it on AO3, so I'll talk about it here because I also don't have access to therapy right now. Anyways, my point is, this first book is done, and I will try and get the second book to you guys by the end of the year. After that, I'll need to pick up the pace because writing two books a year is going to take me twenty years, and I do not have that kind of time in my life.**

**Talk over. I'm good now. Enjoy!**

* * *

Bean bags. There were no couches, no uncomfortable chairs, just a few bean bags, a computer, a desk, and a kind looking man with graying sideburns and the ugliest sweater Lionel had ever seen.

Lionel glanced over his shoulder at his mother, who ushered him inside the room. "Now, Lionel, honey, you know I can't be in here for this. You'll be okay, alright?"

Lionel cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am," he said quietly, looking back to the gentleman across the room. His mother kissed his head and left, closing the door behind her.

The gentleman smiled warmly and gestured to the bean bags. "Take a seat, Lionel. I'm Dr. Landon Swells, but you can call me Mr. Swells, or Landon, if you prefer."

Lionel furrowed his brow and collapsed into the bean bag. "I thought you said you were a doctor."

Dr. Swells nodded and sat in the bean bag opposite Lionel. "That's true, I am a doctor, though not quite the way you imagine it. Have you ever been to a therapist before?"

Lionel shook his head and picked at his jacket. "No, this– Mama said I had to come here, at least for a couple of weeks. This is my first time seeing a therapist." He tilted his head. "I've never seen a black therapist before."

Dr. Swells chuckled. "Well, I can assure you, Lionel, I am not the only black therapist in the city, let alone the country. There are plenty of us." He stretched. "So, uh, tell me about school. What's that like?"

Lionel shrugged and picked at his jacket again. "I dunno. It's alright, I guess. I like most of my teachers, and the classes are mostly interesting. I could do without science or math, though. History is more my thing."

Dr. Swells nodded slowly. "Tell me about your friends."

Lionel shook his head. "Don't have any. Well…" he licked his lips and glanced to the ceiling. "I do have a few, but they're all my siblings' friends' siblings. And I don't really talk to them all that much. I see my cousins twice a week, and I mean, we're friends." He sniffed and locked eyes with Dr. Swells. "I eat lunch by myself in the library, if that's what you're wondering."

Dr. Swells pursed his lips. "Tell me about your cousins."

Lionel shrugged. "Not much to tell. I grew up with them for a few years, then Mama got a promotion at her job – it's really cool, I don't know if you've ever been to the office for _Global Weekly, _but she's one of their head writers, and their only female head writer – so we moved out of that neighborhood and into the suburbs. My cousins –" He closed his eyes and took a breath. "They say that I'm turning into a white boy. And I dunno, that's not, like, bad or anything, but the way they say it, it makes it sound like it's the worst thing that could happen. As if I had any control over it. They say I'm not black enough 'cause Mama won't let us use improper grammar or cuss, and she's trying to make sure we get into college."

Dr. Swells twisted his lips, looking to offer sympathy without seeming to tell Lionel what to say. "So, back to school: why don't you make some of your own friends? Sit next to someone at lunch, instead of staying in the library?"

He blinked. "Well…I mean, I could, and I try on the first day of school every year, but I dunno…" Instead of tugging at his jacket, he began to pick at the skin on the palms of his hands. "I just…"

"Lionel," Dr. Swells said softly.

"Hm?"

"Don't overthink this. Just tell me exactly what thoughts run through your head, okay?"

Lionel nodded quickly. "I don't like a lot of the kids in my classes. A lot of them are mean or they don't want to try, they just want to cheat. Some of them call me names, and I'm talking the big one, the slur. And then others, I guess, just aren't my type of friend. People either want an outgoing black friend, or a quiet white friend, from what I've seen at school. And that's not to say that there aren't any who would like to be my friend, it's just that I don't like to be the one to go out and search for friends, and I like staying at home with my family. I haven't met those people, is what I'm trying to say."

Dr. Swells nodded slowly and picked up a rubber ball, tossing it to Lionel. "Do you ever wish it were different?"

"Sometimes." Lionel tossed the ball back and forth between his hands and sighed heavily, dropping the ball into his lap. "It's mostly when Mama and Dad talk about me becoming a preacher or a missionary. When that happens, all I want to do is get out of the house, but I can only do that when Uncle André is sober."

Dr. Swells leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "And why does it bother you when your parents mention you becoming a preacher or missionary?"

Lionel blinked, and in the second that his eyes were closed, he saw his mom grabbing his hands and dragging him into the middle of the living room, where Clarice played the piano, gently humming along to the hymn she was playing, and Lionel and his parents would dance while Ronnie and Talia kneeled on the couch, leaning over the back, clapping their hands, and they would all sing to the music and Lionel felt the love in the room and he knew that he was unquestionably, irrevocably loved more than he could ever possibly know.

In the second that his eyes were closed, he saw his entire church congregation praying for every trial that had presented itself to the various members, and even when it was a mental health issue, like the one he most certainly was dealing with now, like the one that convinced his mom to send him to a therapist in the first place, the congregation never discriminated, and they prayed, and they did what they could to make sure that the individual knew they were loved. His church wasn't a rich church by any means, but every member who had a penny to spare would place it in the offering plates.

His church went to Africa, to Asia, to South America, to Latin America, and they would talk to others about the word of God, and Lionel honestly admired them, he admired their faith that God would move people like that, and he respected the members who knew the language previously or who took the time to learn the language of the indigenous people rather than relying on a translator.

In the second that he closed his eyes, he saw unquestionable and unconditional love. In the space of a breath before he opened them again, he saw his uncle André, who claimed to know Jesus and who would sneak into their bathroom and do a line of coke.

Lionel took a deep breath and played with his hands. "I'm not a Christian like the rest of my family is, Dr. Swells. I know all about how to do it, but I just…" He shrugged. "I dunno, I respect Christians like my mama and daddy and like my siblings, but I know that it requires a lot that I'm not cut out for." He leaned forward, matching Dr. Swells movement for movement, and for the first time in his visit, Lionel found his confidence. "I don't like people that much. I like being alone. And I know it's not real, but the idea that someone could love me that much to die for me doesn't make sense, ya know? Like…" he sighed. "I believe everything in that book, I just don't want to be a Christian. It's a lot of work, and I can't do that, sir."

Dr. Swells nodded. "I won't tell your parents, if that's what you're worried about." He leaned back into the bean bag and crossed his legs. "Tell me, Lionel, what do you like to do in your free time?"

Lionel had no intention of telling the therapist that he traded his time between homework, staring at various Vine compilations on YouTube, or lying on his back and staring at the ceiling while he regretted every decision he had ever made. "Um, I like to read a lot."

Dr. Swells wouldn't be a very good psychologist if he bought Lionel's lie, and by the slight eyebrow quirk, he absolutely did not.

And, for what was quite possibly the first time in his life, Lionel wondered if he was really as good a liar as he liked to believe he was.

Anxiety and depression ran in the Dupree family. His mama had dealt with both at various times in her life, even while she was married – though her depression was mostly postpartum depression – but either way, she sought help for it as soon as she recognized the symptoms. Her parents hadn't liked that much, but Mama had just lifted her chin in defiance and said, "Better to seek help and receive it than have a life saver thrown at you and you push it aside because you expect God to get you out of the situation. One man is wise, the other is a fool."

Grandmama and Grandpappi never brought it up again.

On the flip side, Mama's brother, Uncle André, turned away from professional help and to depressants. He had the ability of a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out a bottle of alcohol, and Lionel knew that he would get himself in over his head in way too many drug deals before he would "find God" again and sleep in their home.

Lionel loved Uncle André, of course he did, but he didn't always respect him. André had a criminal record the length of Lionel's forearm, and most of the crimes he was convicted of weren't serious or were way before Lionel's time, but it made Lionel uneasy sometimes. When André would slip into the bathroom and when he was there for too long – longer, even, than Daddy's morning and evening "constitutionals" – Lionel would shake his head and retreat to the living room, where he'd pick up the book André got him and he wouldn't notice a single word of it.

For the second time this year, André was back at the Washington household. He sat next to Daddy, joking about something related to construction, and Clarice sat on the floor while thumbing through the newest book she had captured from the library.

André kept glancing at Lionel, and Lionel gritted his teeth. He knew Mama had told him about his diagnosis and their choice not to use prescription medication. He also knew that André was convinced that the neighbors were part of the reason Lionel had both depression and anxiety, and Mama hushed him before saying, "Dr. Swells did say that environment can play a role in the severity of a mental illness, but what am I supposed to do, André? Go out to the neighbors and tell them that they made my baby boy depressed because their children wouldn't hang out with him?"

André shrugged. "If you don't, I certainly wouldn't be opposed to doing it."

Mama gently smacked him. "Now, André, you will do no such thing! They are our neighbors, and even if they are unneighborly, we will be kind to them. Do you understand me, little brother?"

André chuckled and took a sip of his grape soda. It was probably the closest thing to wine he could find in this household, but he didn't seem to mind. "Now, Lucy, you know I'm just joshing."

Mama had lasered André with a glare that could kill and slipped into the kitchen to prepare dinner. Ronnie and Talia shut their homework, promising Daddy that they had finished it all, and ran to the cabinets underneath the tv to grab their marbles. Lionel liked playing, sometimes, but today, he just wanted to sit on the couch and think about his conversation with Dr. Swells.

André shook his can of grape soda. "So, Clarice, tell me about school? Anything interesting?"

Clarice looked up from her book and smiled softly before setting it aside. "There isn't much that's interesting," she said. "I mean, I certainly love school – quit it, Uncle André, there are those of us who do enjoy school and learning – and I think that government is my favorite class. You've met all my friends, and they're still doing pretty good." She frowned thoughtfully and flicked the spine of her book. "But there is this one girl who rides on the bus with me. I've been praying for her, and I know that if I mentioned that to her, she would be upset with me, but I just can't help but notice how much she's hurting. I want to be her friend, but I don't think she wants to be mine."

Lionel scoffed. "Oh, come on, Clarice, if there's someone who doesn't want to be your friend, they must be an idiot."

Clarice ducked her head and her smile broadened. Daddy chuckled to himself. André lifted his soda in the air with a "here, here." Mama stepped out of the kitchen just to put her hands on her hips and lift her brow. "Lionel Joshua Washington, what word did I just hear you use?"

Lionel laughed and spread his hands. "Mama, you know it's true: Clarice is the ideal friend and the ideal big sister. Someone would have to be crazy not to want to be friends with her."

Daddy hummed and lolled his head. "Oh come on, Lucinda, you know he's right. He's just saying what any of the rest of us would say, yourself included."

Mama raised her eyebrow and tilted her head in acknowledgement, though she neither confirmed nor denied Daddy's statement. "I just found out that I'm out of ginger and brown sugar, so I need someone," she looked at Daddy and André, "to go to the grocery store and get me some."

Daddy moved to stand up, but André waved his hand and set down his grape soda. "No, no, Charles, I'll go. I take pleasure in grocery shopping for my sister, and besides, as long as I know I'm gettin' fed, I couldn't be happier." He grabbed his jacket and shrugged it on. "Hey, little man, you wanna come with?"

Lionel, with raised eyebrows, turned his attention to his mother. "Mama? Can I go with Uncle André?"

Mama smiled and wiped her hands on her apron. "Go right ahead, Lionel, but hurry up, you two. I can't make jerk chicken without either of those ingredients."

Lionel shook his head and followed André out the door and into Mama's car. "We better hurry up. Jerk chicken is objectively my favorite meal Mama makes."

André nodded solemnly and waited for Lionel to get buckled in before he backed out of the driveway. "Little man, I'm just gonna say something: your mama's jerk chicken is the best food I've had in my entire life, and that includes our mama's cooking, and that, little man, is one hell of a chef to beat." Lionel chuckled, and André flushed. "I mean," André said, "my mama was one _heck_ of a cook." At the stop sign, he glanced at his nephew. "Don't tell your mama I cursed in front of you."

Lionel laughed a little louder this time and settled into his seat. He knew that André had the foulest mouth out of all of them, likely as a result of a cumulative seven years in prison and who knew how many more around other people with the same colorful language, if not harsher. He heard it when he visited his cousins in the ghetto, and even his cousins would shift uncomfortably before they would whisper to Lionel that they never used language that strong. He knew they were lying, of course, but he made it a habit never to tell his mama.

André cleared his throat. "I'm just tryna say," he said slowly, making sure that he could get out his thought without using more curse words, "that I will be gettin' home as quickly as possible. There ain't no way I'm gonna hold up this grocery mission." He took one hand off the wheel and pointed to Lionel, though his eyes were still on the road. "We go into the store, we get the ginger and brown sugar, we get to the express lane, and we're outta there. Got it?"

Lionel nodded and saluted. "Yes, sir."

Theoretically, the grocery trip could have been faster if they had split up, but then again, due to the size of the grocery store, it would take longer for them to catch up with each other than it would for them to rush to the produce section, grab a ginger root, and hurry to the spice section to pick up brown sugar. All in all, they were in the grocery store for a total of three minutes while André paid cash and Lionel bagged their two purchases.

The only problem with this entire setup was the fact that André kept glancing over his shoulder and herding Lionel ahead of him. Lionel caught his uncle's line of sight once and saw two big burly men glaring at his uncle, and he gulped.

He knew one of them. The shorter of the two was Cornelius Grey, and though he looked nothing threatening next to the other man, Lionel had heard enough about him to know that he was not a man to get mixed up with in any sense of the word. Already, this was closer than Lionel had ever wanted to be to the man, and Cornelius Grey was following them seven yards behind.

André and Lionel didn't even open up the trunk to Mama's car. André pressed the unlock button once and pushed Lionel in front of him. With one hand on Lionel's shoulder, André leaned forward and whispered, "Climb in through the driver's side. I'm right behind you, okay?"

Lionel nodded, his mouth dry. He remembered the ghetto, even though it was seven years ago, and he remembered screwing his eyes shut against the shouting matches outside his home or the _pop pop pop_ of gunshots from either end of the neighborhood, and he remembered pulling his covers over his head while Clarice hurried into his room to comfort him. Daddy used to have a gun. He still did, and it was locked away in a safe now. But back then, Daddy had it on his nightstand, loaded, and he told his children to always knock on the door four times so he would know not to grab the pistol. Mama hated that gun, and Lionel would have, too, but he knew for a fact that Daddy's gun saved them on more than one occasion.

André always said, "Never give a good guy a gun, because they know exactly when and how to use it. They won't take any more time than necessary. If they see the threat, they will pull the trigger, but if a bad guy has a gun, they'll wave it around until you piss them off too much. That's when a bad guy will pull the trigger."

And Daddy, Lionel supposed, was a good guy with a gun. Everyone in the ghetto knew Daddy was a Christian, and no one wanted to be the person that would get shot by a Christian. At least, not a Christian like Daddy. There were some Christians they'd gladly shoot and they'd gladly be shot by.

Lionel jerked open the car door and scrambled inside, but before André could make it in Mama's car, the two men grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the car door. Lionel locked the doors, but he cracked the window open to hear what they were saying.

"We want the money you owe us, André. You've fucked us over too many times. I'm fucking sick of your shit. I don't give a fuck if you have to steal it from your mama or sister, as long as you give it to us."

André tried to turn his head to see Lionel, but the bigger guy gripped André's shirt in both fists and pulled him closer. "Don't even think about it. We're not too big a fan of hurting kids, but if you so much as think about making him call for help, or for him to call the cops, Imma kidnap him and stick a needle in his _fucking_ arm. You wanna explain that to his mama?"

André gulped. "I'll get that money to you when I can," he said hoarsely. "I only have a hundred right now, and I can't tell you how quickly I'll get the rest of it, but please give me some time. I can pawn things off and all, but don't– look, I'm having dinner with my family tonight. We just came to the grocery store to pick up some stuff for dinner, and my nephew is with me. Alright? Can't we do this another time, LeRoy?"

Cornelius nudged LeRoy. "We can just take the hundred now. This is too public a place, anyways."

LeRoy finally let go of André. "Give us what you have now."

André fished in his pocket and placed the roll of cash in their hands. "I'll get the rest to you as soon as I can, I promise," he said, knocking on the door. Lionel unlocked the car. "Thanks for the meetup, I really appreciate it." André waved as he slipped into the car, and as soon as he was inside, Lionel re-locked the car doors.

It didn't matter much, anyways. The men were gone, counting the money between them. André groaned and rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

"Uncle André?"

André lifted his head wearily and blinked at Lionel. He looked fifteen years older, older than Mama even, and the bags under his eyes hadn't been there twenty minutes ago. "Yeah, little man?"

Lionel decided not to press the matter of his nickname. "Are you doing drugs again?"

André blew a breath past his lips and started the car. "It's complicated."

Lionel pursed his lips and stared out the windshield, clutching the grocery bag to his chest. "Mmm, not really. Are you doing drugs again?"

André checked the traffic and eased out of the parking lot. "I'm clean. For now. I want you to know that. But the thing is, when I wasn't, I was buying from those guys you just met – I didn't have the money before, and I don't have the money now. Part of the reason I got clean was because I knew they'd kill me if I went back to them without the money I needed, and even still, they might kill me. The only reason they didn't was because– it wasn't even because you were with me."

"It's the depression, ain't it?" Lionel shook his head. "Listen, André, I have depression too – at least, that's what Dr. Swells told me – but he told me to find, like, a good way to get it out of my system. You could exercise. I know you hate it but –"

André stuck his right hand in Lionel's face, and Lionel clamped his lips shut. "Don't you think I've tried all the good things, Lionel?" He sighed and shook his head, lowering his forehead to the steering wheel. Lionel trained his eyes onto the traffic light. "I'm an addict, kid. No matter what I do, I'm gonna be addicted. I never learned any different."

Lionel nodded at the light. "Green." André lifted his head and slowly pulled out into the intersection. "Listen, André, you didn't learn any different because you didn't _want_ to learn any different. Mama said –"

"Hm?" Lionel flinched at his uncle's tone and squeezed his eyes shut. "What, Lionel? Mama said what?"

When Lionel opened his eyes, he saw the white knuckles on the steering wheel and turned his head to look out the window. His watch beeped, telling him that his heart rate was getting too high, but he just tapped his watchface and unrolled the window.

"Lionel." André took one hand off the steering wheel and gripped Lionel's shoulder. "What the hell did your mama say?"

"Ow!" He shook his uncle's hand off his shoulder. "Let go of me, André!" He massaged his shoulder. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to touch kids without their permission? It ain't any different from when you're an adult."

"Oh, you know what your mama would say if she heard you talking like you are? With all those 'ain'ts?'"

"Like you actually care about that!"

André slammed his hand against the dashboard so hard that when he pulled his hand away, it shook. "Tell me what your mama said!"

Lionel licked his lips. "She said you don't really want to get better. You're just– I don't know, hiding out until your drug dealers forget to look for you."

André gritted his teeth and pulled over.

"Hey!" Lionel jerked at the handle. "We ain't home yet!"

"Cool your jets, little man." André twisted in his seat and scratched at his beard. "It's not that I don't want to get better, Lionel, it's that I'm scared of withdrawals. You've seen me with the alcohol withdrawals, the first time I tried to get clean, for real."

He remembered his uncle screaming from the basement and waving a bat around. He remembered his dad taking most everything from the basement, save for an air mattress and a couple of blankets. He remembered his uncle looking a shade paler and shaking every time he reached for something. Worst of all, he remembered his uncle hallucinating dead bodies and whispered voices and clawing at his skin before he collapsed to the floor in a seizure. Clarice turned him around and herded him out of the room while Mama and Daddy called an ambulance, but sometimes, when Lionel had his nightmares, he would see his uncle twitching on the ground and he could see the whites of André's eyes, but before the dream could end, André's eyes would turn red, then black, and he would froth at the mouth and roll onto his back, and his body would arch off the ground and a gravelly voice that spoke no language on Earth came from his mouth.

Lionel slept in his parents' bed on those nights.

He nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly, staring at the console. "I remember."

"It's– I want to be better, but I wish there was a way to do that without the withdrawals. But I think part of your mama's problem is she thinks– well, Lionel, she thinks I'm just a Christian wandering astray."

Lionel scoffed and tilted his head. "That's what you tell everyone."

"Of course that's what I tell everyone. They wouldn't let me back without that story."

_Why?_ Lionel wanted to ask. _Because they would know that, eventually, you would bring your dealers to the front door and Daddy would have to get his gun and wave it around and it would feel too much like the ghetto again?_

"You don't know that."

"Lionel, I'm not a Christian. If I was, I think I'd be dealin' with this a lot better than I am. And before you give me a damn sermon – I already heard a thousand from my big sister all throughout our childhood – I don't want to become a Christian. It ain't worth it to me."

_Is this the man I want to become?_ Lionel's eyes traveled from his uncle's balding head to his scraggly beard, back up to the bags under his eyes and the bloodshot eyes, the gauges in his ears, the hollow cheeks that took away from his once attractive uncle, the shirt that hung too loosely around André's body, the shaking hands, the peeled skin. André was a dead man walking, and Lionel was on the same path.

"How did it start with you?" It wasn't the question he wanted to ask. He wanted to ask _what made you decide it wasn't worth it?_ or _is the life you're living really worth all this addiction?_ But Lionel saw himself in his uncle, he knew that one day, they would end up in the same boat, in the same situation, and if André were so scared that he needed drugs, then what was in store for Lionel? How soon would Lionel wake up and think _Oh my God, it's too late for me?_

André lifted one shoulder in a shrug and scratched the back of his neck. "Mostly I didn't really like readin' the Bible. I didn't like readin' anything, and I hated school. I found people who would ditch class, and I started sneaking out with them. It made me nervous, being away from school, but they gave me alcohol to calm my nerves, then they gave me pot, then coke, then I couldn't stop."

At least Lionel never skipped class unless his mama declared he was having a mental health day. On those days, he would head into the office with her and twirl around on her spinning chair while she interviewed someone over the phone. Now he wondered if it was because she knew how André's drug addiction started, and Lionel wouldn't put it past her.

André smiled sadly. "But at least you're on the straight and narrow. I'm glad that you're like your mama."

Lionel gulped. He hated lying, to his therapist, to his teachers, and most of all, to his family. He figured his mama knew something was up with him and he wasn't telling, and when the question came up, he found a way to skirt it. But he couldn't lie now. Not when André was honest.

"I ain't a Christian, either, André. I ain't like my mama."

André's smile, however sad, fell, and he bit his bottom lip. "You better not turn out like me, little man."

"Well, I'm trying my best. I don't exactly want to get addicted to crack."

André flinched like he'd been punched in the gut and eased the car back into the street. "Well, I have a feelin' that you're more like your mama than you believe. You may not be a Christian now – hell, you may never become a Christian – but you're your mama through and through."

André never told Mama anything about Lionel not following his family into the Christian faith. When his mama brought up being a preacher again that night at dinner, Lionel just smiled tightly and drank his milk, looking at André across the table.

It wasn't that he didn't want to be a Christian, exactly. He knew everything in the Bible, and he believed it, too. There wasn't much else that made sense to him. But his mama and Daddy and sister always explained the responsibility of becoming a Christian, and that usually sent him into an anxiety attack because he still didn't know how to make spaghetti, how could he possibly be in charge of leading people? He wasn't a leader. He didn't take charge, he didn't want to take charge, and he knew he wasn't always right all of the time. Christians were the gentle, soft-spoken people or the take charge people, and since he was neither, he couldn't see himself being a Christian.

Besides, responsibility made him break out in hives, more or less.

And, well, there was the whole thing about getting married and having kids, and with the knowledge of The Talk in his mind, he shuddered and collapsed into the couch. Sex didn't sound fun to him. Didn't sound fun for anyone, if he had to be honest.

Daddy was the second one to make it into the living room. André had been given the task of washing the dishes by hand since he'd taken so long getting back from the grocery. Lionel didn't say why, and André wasn't going to tell. Lionel just passed his plate to his uncle and hurried into the living room.

Daddy picked up his magazine. "So, Lionel, is there anyone at school you have a crush on? It's been a while since I asked."

Lionel flushed and picked at his sweatpants. "Um…" he cleared his throat. "I'm…not…in- interested in girls, per se."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daddy freeze. "Oh?"

Lionel snorted when Daddy's voice rose an octave. "No, I'm not interested in boys either. You don't have to figure out how to phrase anything like that. I'm…not really interested in anyone like that, if that makes sense." He shrugged. "If we were Catholic, I'd be a priest. Makes the whole 'not getting married ever' thing easier."

Daddy chuckled and set the magazine aside. "Well, I'm glad that you told me, and I'm glad that we don't have to worry about you getting in over your head when you have no idea what you're doing."

"Bet Clarice isn't this easy."

Daddy whistled lowly. "I'm having to go through all of her crushes and give my opinion, and let me tell you, son, I am not a fan of any of them. They're too nice! They've gotta be hiding something!"

Lionel snorted.

His family filed back into the living room after dinner, André the last of them all. Clarice, like always, gravitated toward the piano, and while the family talked, she would occasionally play a few keys before turning her attention to the conversation. When André finished with the last of the dishes, Clarice played "Fur Elise" while Ronnie and Talia turned around to watch their sister play.

André collapsed on the couch next to Lionel. "Who woulda thought," he whispered in his nephew's ear, "that you and I would turn out to be the ones goin' to hell if the world ends tonight?"

Lionel glared at his uncle. Really, he wanted to push him away and tell him to shut up, but his mama and daddy were watching, so he just smiled tightly. "Maybe."

As Clarice played the overture for _Mary Poppins_ – the 1964 version, even though Lionel had tried to convince her to watch the one with Emily Blunt – he bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn't going to become Uncle André. He didn't want to go to hell. He wanted to be like Mama, and like Daddy, and like Clarice.

If he didn't fall asleep to "Stay Awake," he would ask Clarice about it all tonight. Yeah, tonight. No putting it off for tomorrow.


	4. Tiny Skeptic

"Do you surrender?"

Ryan, though lying flat on his back, panted heavily and kicked at Raymie's lightsaber. "Never!" he squealed, jumping up onto the armrest. He brandished his own lightsaber while Raymie massaged his hand. "I will never surrender! I will never die! I am the invincible king!"

"Yeah, well, 'invincible king' and his defeated enemy, it's time for you to hit the sack." Raymie's dad leaned against the entry to the living room and yawned. "If you boys want me to take you to the airport tomorrow, that is."

Ryan chewed on his bottom lip. "Rame?" he said, studying Mr. Steele. "What do you think?"

Raymie scratched his head. "Well, my good Chicagoan, my dear Cermak –"

"We agreed never to bring up my middle name," he growled.

Raymie shrugged. "It's too good for me not to make fun of you. My dear Cermak Ryan, I truly believe that Dad is dad serious." He pivoted and pointed finger guns at Ryan. "Get it?"

Ryan jumped down from the armrest. "I get it," he said, gently punching Raymie's shoulder. "And it sucked. Even Mr. Steele can do better, can't you, Mr. Steele?"

Mr. Steele chuckled to himself and shook his head. "I don't know, Ryan, I think that was pretty funny."

Ryan narrowed his eyes at Mr. Steele. "That's what we call favoritism, Mr. Steele."

Raymie lifted his chin and sauntered past both Ryan and his father. "Well, I _am_ his only son and his youngest child, I _think_ I earned the role of favorite."

Ryan grabbed his lightsaber and trotted after Raymie. Mr. Steele rolled his eyes, pushed himself off the wall, and herded the boys to Raymie's room. "Well, I'm the favorite at my place. The favorite child, too. So there!"

"Pshhh." Raymie crawled over the booby traps they had set earlier, at the beginning of their Star Wars game. "You're the only child. It doesn't count, they can't have another favorite."

"Now, Raymie, don't be like that," Mr. Steele said, picking up Raymie's desk chair and moving it back to its original position. "Ryan is an enjoyable kid, and just because his parents decided they didn't want more children doesn't mean anything."

Raymie merely bounced onto his bunk bed and turned to face his father with one eyebrow raised.

Mr. Steele crossed his arms. "Jesus says not to have favorites."

Raymie, for the first time all evening, scowled. "Whatever," he said, and he grabbed his pillow. "You don't believe in Jesus."

"My point stands."

Ryan worried his bottom lip. "Mr. Steele?"

"Hm?"

Ryan edged closer to the doorway. "Before we go to bed, can we get some ice cream? Pretty pretty please?"

Mr. Steele lifted the corner of his mouth in a smile and beckoned the boys to follow him. "Only if you'll put a cherry on top of yours."

Once in the kitchen, Raymie and Ryan opened the refrigerator door in search of the cherry. Mr. Steele left the light off, though there was enough light coming from the pantry for him to see what he was doing. While he grabbed the ice cream scooper from the drawer, Ryan and Raymie grabbed the box of blueberries and the bag of cherries and made their way over to the barstools.

Raymie's house wasn't exactly big, not like the mansions in Mount Prospect. There weren't many mansions, and Ryan knew that just as well, but to him, in this neighborhood, the Steeles had the biggest house on the block. Their backyard was large enough for a miniature version of baseball, and they had a pool with a hot tub. Ryan's family had a hot tub, but the pool wasn't attached to it. And since Raymie had both the pool and the hot tub, the Daley hot tub was primarily out of use.

Besides, the Steele household had enough room to play lightsabers and the floor is lava when it was raining or snowing outside, and the Steeles even had a wood fireplace, while the Daley fireplace was gas. Dad always said they got the gas fireplace because Ryan wouldn't be big enough to chop wood for another few years yet, and Dad couldn't be the only one to chop wood. And besides, Dad had said, he traveled all the time. The wood fireplace would be more trouble than it would be worth. But Mom and Ryan needed a fire when the snow came, so a gas fireplace they had.

It was part of the reason Ryan stopped believing in Santa when he was just six years old. That, and Mrs. Steele had ruined it for him, and he had torn his way back to his own home, tears freezing on his cheeks, and Raymie later told him that he had never heard his parents fight like that ever before.

"Penny for your thoughts, Ryan?" Mr. Steele slid two bowls of rocky road in front of the boys. "You're not even trying to grab a cherry, and you promised me you would."

Ryan shook his head free of his thoughts and dug his hand into the bag of cherries. "Just thinking about how cool your house is. You gonna build a wood fire this year, Mr. Steele?"

Mr. Steele chuckled. "Well, Ryan, it's May. The weather is getting a lot warmer, so I don't think there's going to be a wood fire anytime soon."

Ryan's face fell and he dug his spoon into his bowl. "Wood fires are a gagillion times better than a stupid gas fire."

Mr. Steele sighed and glanced at his son, who seemed not to be particularly interested in the conversation and very interested in the ice cream in front of him. "Ryan, gas fires aren't necessarily bad. It's all in your head."

Ryan shrugged. "Doesn't Raymie help you chop the wood in October or something? It's– never mind."

Mr. Steele sighed again and rubbed the back of his neck. "Ryan, your dad loves you. I hope you know that."

Ryan nodded quickly. "I do. I do know that. It's just…I don't know, wood fires smell better, and I heard that chopping wood helps make you stronger."

"You're twelve years old, you don't need to be as strong as NFL players."

Raymie finally looked up. "He wants to be on the A team next year when he tries out for football." He swallowed his ice cream and stuck his spoon back in the bowl and scooped out more ice cream than Mr. Steele truly believed could fit in his mouth; though, when he looked at Ryan, he figured maybe he was wrong. "I keep telling him that he's a better basketball player, but he won't listen."

"Because you keep telling me that the Civil War wasn't fought over slavery."

"Yeah, because it was states' rights, and one of the state decisions _was_ slavery!"

Mr. Steele blinked slowly. "Ryan?"

Ryan dropped his spoon and bit his cheek as it clattered against the tile. "Yes, sir?"

"Would you like to help Raymie and me chop the wood next October? I promise you can use the axe, but only if I'm right there and you listen to everything I say." He glanced over his shoulder. "Do we have a deal?"

Ryan looked at Mr. Steele's proffered hand, the spoon on the ground, and Raymie dropping a handful of blueberries into the rest of his ice cream. "Yes," he said, shaking Mr. Steele's hand as firmly as he could, "we do."

* * *

"Mr. Steele?"

Mr. Steele placed his hand on Ryan's shoulder. "Yeah, son?"

Son was an unfamiliar word to Ryan, at least in a context like this one. He knew that his dad loved him, of course he knew, but he also felt like his dad didn't want to be home most of the time. He knew that he was a son, of course he knew that, but he didn't ever hear his dad introduce him to coworkers as "This is my son, Ryan." He always told Ryan to introduce himself, and he would, and then he would wonder why his dad made him do that.

Ryan tilted his head as far back as he could. "How old do I have to be to get my pilot's license?"

Mr. Steele chuckled and pulled the brim of Ryan's new captain hat down low. "Oh, I've converted you from the business world to the world of the birds?"

Ryan pushed the hat back up his brow. "What?"

Raymie turned on his left heel and began walking backwards. Mr. Steele gritted his teeth and warned him to watch out for people trying to get to their flights. "It means," he said, stuffing a handful of peanuts in his mouth, "that Dad's at a bird's-eye view. He gets to see what the birds do, and the only other things up there with him are clouds and birds."

"Not always birds," Mr. Steele said, letting go of Ryan's shoulder to turn Raymie facing forward again.

"Oh." Ryan popped a peanut in his mouth and crunched it for three steps. "But, yeah, you did convert me into wanting to be a pilot instead of an NFL player."

Mr. Steele whistled lowly. "That impressed, eh? I didn't think that was possible?"

"Well, I'm still short, Mr. Steele. I can't play for the NFL unless I'm bigger."

Mr. Steele took a deep breath. "Ryan, you're twelve, you _should_ be as small as you are."

Dad was gone again.

It was another trip, another flight overseas, and Mom was sitting at the kitchen table, chewing on her thumbnail, when Ryan finally waved goodbye to Mr. Steele and Raymie. When he was greeted with silence, except for the drone of the news, his shoulders sagged.

Dad was gone.

He knew, in the back of his mind, that the reason he had stayed the night at the Steeles' instead of sleeping at home and waking up early tomorrow was because his parents were fighting again. He had heard it before, he always heard it, even when they closed the door and turned on their music and the television. It wasn't like they yelled, it wasn't like it ever got really bad, but they raised their voices enough for him to hear them when he would pass by their room.

His dad said that his job was important. His mom responded by saying, "Jesus, Todd, you're a damn _insurance salesman,"_ and their voices would get louder. This was usually Ryan's cue to grab a sticky note and a sharpie and write that he was heading over to Raymie's house for a little bit. He had scared his parents on more than one occasion, and he even remembered the police coming to look for him once, and Mrs. Steele had to explain to them that she had been under the impression that Ryan had told his parents where he would be.

Fight or no fight, he enjoyed staying with the Steeles, but he always missed his mom. So after getting past the initial disappointment of not seeing his dad again, he squared his shoulders and bounced into the kitchen. "Mom! Look what Mr. Steele gave us!"

Mom's face lifted immediately and she welcomed Ryan into her arms.

(Ryan hated hugs, but he felt that his mom needed one, especially now. Especially when his dad was involved.)

"Well," she said, pushing his hair away from his eyes, "are you going to be a pilot?"

Ryan nodded emphatically. "As soon as I'm old enough to get my pilot's license. Maybe I can be homeschooled so I can be the youngest pilot ever!"

Mom laughed to herself and stood. "Maybe not that young." She pointed to the chair she just vacated, and Ryan slid into it. "Do you want me to make mac-'n-cheese or order pizza? You and I can just watch a movie tonight."

He sat up straighter. "Really? You're not just saying that? You and I can watch a movie?"

Mom nodded slowly and picked up the telephone. "And I'm assuming you want _both_ mac-'n-cheese and pizza?"

He jumped up from his chair and gave his mom another hug. "You know me so well."

* * *

The movie had a sex scene.

Now, neither he nor his mom knew this in advance, and Ryan wasn't quite considered an expert on what sex was, exactly. He was still under the impression that kissing too much could make someone get pregnant, and neither of his parents had ever corrected him.

So when the two main characters started kissing a lot and taking off their clothes, Mom accidentally hit Ryan in her haste to cover his eyes from their nakedidity, and Ryan – who did not know what was happening – tried to pry her hand away from his eyes so that he would not miss anything more.

Ryan was sent back the Steele household with the very explicit message to tell whichever Steele greeted him first that he needed Mr. Steele to tell him about the birds and the bees, and – if asked – his own father couldn't tell him because he was on a plane to Asia.

When Mom first told him to go _back_ to the Steeles', even after being there for an entire 24 hours already, Ryan was confused, and Mom kissed his forehead. "It's not that I don't want to tell you," she said, "it's just that it's better if your father or Mr. Steele tells you about this."

So Ryan stood at the front door to the Steele house, and he considered going back to his own home when he heard the yelling inside. He couldn't hear much of it, but he thought he heard something about how Mr. Steele was tired of getting lectured, and just as Ryan was about to back away and head home, Raymie's sister rolled up in the driveway.

"Hey, Ryan!" She waved, and Ryan bounded down the front steps to help her with her bags. "I heard you and Raymie had a full day together. What brings you back so soon?"

Ryan slung Chloe's backpack onto his shoulder. "Mom and I were watching a movie, then she covered my eyes and told me that I needed to come here and get Mr. Steele to tell me about the birds and the bees."

Chloe winced. "Oh, that's– oof. Um, yeah, I'll warn him in advance that you're here."

Ryan glanced over his shoulder and scuffed his tennis shoes against the driveway. "Um…"

"Mom and Dad are fighting again?" She shook her head and took off for the front door. "Doesn't entirely surprise me, to be honest. Ever since she spoiled Santa for you and Raymie, they've had more fights than ever before."

Ryan furrowed his brow. "It's my fault?"

Chloe's face softened as she stuck her key in the front door. "Of course it's not," she said softly. "It most definitely is not your fault. I love Mom, but she shouldn't have told you or Raymie like she did." She pressed her shoulder against the front door and turned the key, and the door popped open. "Mom? Dad? I'm home, and so is Ryan!"

The yelling stopped, and Mrs. Steele rushed from what Ryan could only assume was the laundry room to greet Chloe. "You're home! Oh, I missed you!"

Chloe hugged her mother back just as much. "I missed you, too, Mom."

While Mr. Steele waited for his turn to hug Chloe, he tilted his head and studied Ryan. "You know, I'm starting to think you like us more than your own family."

To prove that, no, he did not like the Steeles _more_ than his own family, Ryan stuck his tongue out at Mr. Steele. "Mom said you need to tell me about the birds and the bees."

Mr. Steele whistled lowly. "Okay, well…head onto my study. I'll be there in a few minutes, I just want to say hello to Chloe, alright?"

Chloe grabbed one of the straps on her backpack and tugged him closer to her. "Thanks for carrying my backpack, squirt," she said. "Now give me a hug, too, you're like my other little brother."

Ryan let the backpack slide off his shoulder and he offered Chloe a one-armed hug. He liked her and all, loved her like he imagined he would love a sister, but he was all hugged out for the day, and he had the suspicion that the birds and the bees talk was not going to be a fun one.

Mr. Steele's study was nothing like Dad's. Dad's study actually had books, a lot of thick books that Ryan was pretty sure were there more for show than actual reading, and there were thick leather armchairs that reclined and a big rug. It wasn't big, by any means, but it was warm and cozy, and Ryan would often find himself sneaking into his dad's study whenever he missed him or whenever it was raining outside.

Mr. Steele's study, on the other hand, was not what Ryan would consider a study. On the top shelves, where only Mr. Steele could reach, there were board games, including Clue and Monopoly and CandyLand. Underneath, stacked haphazardly among the shelves, there were hundreds of books, including _The Boxcar Children_ and _Magic Treehouse_ and _Harry Potter._ Raymie couldn't read _Harry Potter _– his mom said it was against the Bible, and since Raymie believed the Bible, he didn't care to read it, but Chloe had bought those books for Raymie. Mr. Steele had worked out a deal with Ryan where he would read the _Harry Potter _books at their house, write up a mini book report for Raymie, and no one would be any the wiser.

He had pictures taken in the cockpit, of his crew, of some of the bigger planes he'd flown, of his family, and a world map pinned to the wall. Where Dad's study was warm and cozy, perfect for a rainy day, Mr. Steele's was perfect for a day to cold to venture outside. Sunlight slanted through the blinds and onto a bear rug he'd purchased at a flea market. Some of Raymie's old toys stood proudly on Mr. Steele's desk, all with a broken part here or there. And there were bean bags.

Ryan plopped into one of the bean bags and tapped out a rhythm while he waited for Mr. Steele. He could hear them in the entryway, still talking, and both Mr. and Mrs. Steele kept asking Chloe how finals went and if she was glad to be back home for break, and what's college like and Chloe, do you have a boyfriend that I need to murder if he breaks your heart.

Chloe laughed, and when Ryan peered around the doorway, he saw her cross her arms and shake her head, her brown hair gently smacking her in the face. "Dad, there is no boyfriend, I promise. Nothing you need to worry about."

Mr. Steele bit his lip and hummed.

"I'm serious!"

Mr. Steele hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "I've gotta go talk to Ryan. I'll talk to you later tonight and into tomorrow, unless you decide to go visit a very close friend of yours…"

"Dad!"

Mr. Steele held up both hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, if you say so."

Ryan, once he saw Mr. Steele heading his way, pressed himself flat against the bean bag and started his attempt in whistling. He still couldn't whistle. Raymie had tried to teach him a million times, but he just couldn't whistle. Maybe he was breathing out too much.

Mr. Steele closed the door behind him. "Ryan, you don't have to be concerned about listening to Mrs. Steele and me greet Chloe. It wasn't like you overheard something personal."

Ryan twisted his lips. "What gave it away?"

Mr. Steele shrugged and pulled up his desk chair. "You were trying to whistle, and you have no idea how to whistle. Nice try, though."

Ryan bit his thumbnail. "I think I'm blowing out too much."

Mr. Steele laughed to himself and wiped his palms on his jeans. Ryan had never really seen him nervous before, not like this, and he was a little bit terrified for what the birds and the bees was all about. Did it mean someone was dying? His mom had covered up his eyes, so there was clearly something she didn't want him to see, and it wasn't like he hadn't seen characters die on television before.

Mr. Steele huffed out a breath. "Ryan, do you know what sex is?"

Ryan blinked. "I– no, sir, not really. Isn't it just another name for gender?"

Mr. Steele rolled his neck. "Oh, boy, uh, this is not– this is going to be a long day."

* * *

After being scarred for life and asking Mr. Steele every question that popped into his head – and getting most of them answered, except for maybe the ones that Mr. Steele didn't really know in the first place – Ryan resolved that he was never ever ever going to get married or have sex. The very thought just–

He shuddered. He would be doing no such thing anytime soon.

When he slipped back into his house for the second time that day, his mom greeted him at the doorway. "Ryan!" she whisper-shouted. "Your dad's on the phone, I'll give it to you when I'm done talking."

Ryan waved at her and started up his PlayStation. If his dad wasn't too tired to talk with him at all, the conversation would probably be short and sweet, though Ryan had to admit that he really hoped that it would drag on. The longer he talked with his dad, the less he thought about the whole idea of sex – and where did the term "birds and the bees" come from, anyways? – and it would mean another moment where he could think peacefully.

But right now, the game on the server was not enough to keep his mind from wandering, and he tossed the controller onto the ottoman and shuddered again. "Why would anyone willingly do that?" he said to the empty room. He thought back to the bits and pieces he saw despite his mother's hand, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust. Good thing he already had dinner.

Mom walked into the living room. "Alright. Goodnight, honey. I love you. Here's Ryan."

Ryan automatically plucked the phone from his mother's hand. "Hey, Dad!"

"Ryan! Buddy! How is life treating you back home?"

Ryan settled back into the couch. The throw pillows collapsed into him, and he didn't have the energy to toss them away. "Today was so cool! Mr. Steele took Raymie and me to the airport – he gave us a kind of pass that got us into the airport without having to get a boarding pass or anything like that, and we just looked at some of the planes that were being worked on and weren't going up and he explained how to fly." He got up and headed back into the kitchen, digging in the pantry for a snack. Whether he was in the mood for cookies or donuts or crackers, he wasn't entirely sure, so he just picked up a bag of pretzels and opened the fridge. "And then he let Raymie and me play with a few of the buttons – the plane wasn't, like, going to fly or anything, and we put everything back as soon as we touched it, and he gave us a captain's hat and some wing pins and computer printouts of weather conditions and –"

"Sounds like you want to be a pilot now, huh?" Dad's voice was tight, and Ryan's face fell as he grabbed the slices of cheese from the fridge.

"Well, yeah, being a pilot sounds really cool. Mr. Steele told us a story of when he almost crashed the plane – well, _he_ didn't almost crash it, it just almost crashed – and he had to save everyone before they nosedived into Lake Michigan!"

"Don't you think that he was exaggerating to make a good story?"

Ryan pulled a slice of cheese out of the bag, broke it into pieces, and placed one piece on top of a pretzel. "Maybe. I guess. But either way, I think I'm gonna be a pilot. Or a CIA agent. Or a spy. But right now, it looks like I'm gonna be a pilot."

Dad sighed on the other end of the line. "So you're not going to be like your old man?"

Ryan twisted his lips. "Dad, to be honest, I don't really know what you do. It doesn't sound very interesting."

"I may not have a really cool job, but it _is_ important. What I do, I mean."

"Must be why you're gone so much." Ryan froze as soon as the words popped out of his mouth and looked around the kitchen. Mom hadn't heard him, but there was no way that Dad hadn't.

Dad sighed again. "Ryan, you know I love you, right? I don't want to be gone all the time, but if I'm going to get money to put food on the table, I need this job and I need to do what my boss tells me. Your mom teaches preschool, and that's not enough to take care of the both of you. I've gotta do this, for you and your mom."

Ryan let out a shaky breath. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it, Dad, it's just…I wish you were here more often and all that."

"Well, as soon as I get back, I'm going to take some time off, and you and I will spend the whole weekend together, just the two of us. We can go camping, if you want, or we can play catch and movie hop all day."

"I luff that idea," he said through a mouthful of cheese and pretzels.

"Well, it's past your bedtime."

"No, ift's not!"

"It's getting close to it, and I have a reminder on my phone that buzzes whenever you only have twenty minutes left before bed. Go on, get ready. I'll talk to you soon. I love you."

"Love you, too, Dad." After he hung up the phone, he knocked on his mom's door and offered to play a game of Clue with her. She laughed and said no, but she'd play Uno.

So when he won fifteen times in a row, he could only assume that he was going to go to bed fifteen minutes early the next few nights.

* * *

Sometimes, Mom had to work extra late or help out with Aunt Evelyn in Chicago, and she wouldn't be home at the typical hour. Before, when Ryan was younger, Mom made it a point to minimize these instances as much as possible, but ever since Aunt Evelyn had surgery, Mom had been helping out more and more, so Ryan usually was the first one home on any given weekday.

Now, the rule was that Ryan could not have anyone over while he was home alone. He could go to the Steeles', given that Mrs. Steele told Mom that Ryan was there.

When it was an occasional thing, Ryan and Raymie often broke that rule and Raymie would be there until Mom's car rolled into the driveway, and Raymie would slip out the back and circle around the front a few minutes later. Ryan felt bad sometimes, because he knew Mom was just trying to make sure he was safe and if Raymie got caught, then both of them were in trouble.

For the fourth time in a week, Ryan was home first, so he ran back to the bus stop and caught up with Raymie. "Hey, Rame! My mom isn't home, you wanna come to my place?"

Raymie glared at him. "You know the rule about that."

"Of course I know the rule about that, but we've broken that rule before."

Raymie shook his head emphatically. "The Bible says to honor thy father and thy moth–"

Ryan scoffed and waved a hand in dismissal. "Stop giving me talks about the Bible! I don't care! Are you gonna come to my place, or am I going to yours?"

Raymie twisted his lips. "Well, you can come over to my place. But do you promise we'll at least get some of our homework out of the way?"

Ryan gently shoved his best friend, catching Raymie's elbow before he tripped into the grass. "Why do you have to be such a nerd?"

"It's a gift," Raymie said.


	5. The Eve of Destruction

The night of April 27 was exceptionally normal as far as nights go. Through the rest of the world, many people were doing what people do – sticking a baked potato in the microwave, forgetting momentarily that it was wrapped in aluminum. Or maybe they were rushing to the hospital while in labor, and they were either excited or nervous or a mix of both. Or, perhaps, they sat in front of the television and watched a movie with family members. Some people were in school. College students likely studied for tests or quizzes or impending finals – some, truly, prayed for the Rapture to occur before finals, stopping their prayers only long enough to wonder if it would count as an absence and hurt their final grade, though they finally determined that it would not matter by then, anyways.

Even for Lionel and Vicki, the night of April 27 was nothing that they hadn't dealt with before. Lionel loved listening to his sister play the piano. Vicki, after another fight with her parents, stormed outside her home and choked on a sob before catching up with her friends, reaching for the nearest bottle of hard alcohol. For Ryan Daley, the night of April 27 was nothing he hadn't experienced before, but it was not quite normal. His father was still out of town, though he would be coming home the next morning, and his heart ached with the added absence of Mr. Steele, though he knew Mr. Steele had to fly tonight.

Really, it was only Judd Thompson Jr. who had the abnormal night on April 27.

See, despite their lives that were so far removed from one another, these four were not quite so different as society would have them believe. Though neither Judd nor Vicki attended church with any form of regularity, the times that the both of them were dragged to church by their parents, they often sat next to each other by happenstance; if they weren't next to each other, they were just close enough that Judd could see Vicki's red hair, and though he did not know her name, he would smile fondly at the memory of the notes he wrote to the mysterious little _V_ that popped up at some upperclassmen parties. He knew her there, too, and he loved kissing her more than any other girl, loved the taste of her lips upon his, though he didn't often remember the experience. Judd knew very little about her, despite sleeping with her on more than one occasion, but he knew to look for her at the parties, and he knew, for some reason, he would miss her while he was in England.

Vicki had never met Lionel Washington, though she sat with his sister on the bus ride to and from school every day. It was Lionel's sister who would help her get passing grades, using only the time they had on the bus to explain the material, knowing that Vicki would barely glance at it after that. On the days when Vicki didn't ask for tutoring help, and on the days when she was sober, Vicki would pick at her jeans and ask Clarice about her family, and she heard a lot about her quiet little brother who was destined for things that he could never dream of, but of course Clarice was in no mood to tell him that.

Ryan knew Judd in no way, but he knew Raymie better than the back of his hand, and Raymie went to New Hope Village Church, which happened to be the church that the Thompsons and the Byrnes chose to attend. Though Raymie was twelve years old, he participated in the youth group eagerly, which meant that Ryan often had to find something else to do on Wednesday nights. And, on the night of April 27, Mr. Steele was flying a plane to England. At least according to Raymie.

Jeannie had started attending youth group, too, though it was harder for her to find a method of transportation to get to New Hope. Occasionally, the fifth graders would consolidate with the junior high, and Jeannie would run into Raymie, and she would smile at him, and Raymie would find something nice to say to her because he could tell that she didn't hear a lot of nice things very often.

Maybe, if Vicki saw Lionel in a crowd, she could pick him out. She knew Judd only from the parties she went to and the occasional church service, and only then, she knew him by the name _J._ However, she knew nothing of Ryan and barely anything of Raymie, excepting that Jeannie told her once about the nice blonde boy who told her he liked her shirt.

Likewise, Judd didn't know any of them, sans Vicki – or _V_ – but if Ryan Daley were sitting next to him, he would point towards the cockpit and say, "That's my best friend's dad," and Judd would smile and nod and ask about school.

These four kids didn't know each other from Adam. They were complete strangers.

It is often said that things wouldn't have happened any other way: many Christians say that, if these certain circumstances hadn't aligned in just the right order, they never would have accepted God. Or married couples say that if they hadn't met their spouse at that point in time or become friends with them at that point in time, well, the relationship never would have come that far.

I, however, call straight bullshit. Just because things happened one way does not mean that they would never have happened any other way.

That being said, it's no wonder why these four believe that the entire world would have been different if things hadn't happened the way they did.

* * *

Once the plane had been in the air for around half an hour – or maybe it was an hour, Judd had other, more important things on his mind – the flight attendant came by and handed him a glass of champagne. She didn't ask for his ID or his age, and for once, Judd was grateful for the rusty razors that gave him an excuse not to shave. The man next to Judd refused.

Now, the thing was, Judd's parents were by no means a dry household. They drank wine at least once a week, though they always hid it in various places where Judd couldn't find it or get it. They had champagne for fancy occasions. And, well, Judd had a history with alcohol and he knew his alcohol tolerance. Champagne should be a piece of cake compared to the beers he pounded back at every high school party he had ever gone to.

Except he had never drunk champagne before.

He took a bigger gulp of champagne than what he should have and what would have made even beer burn on the way down, and he choked on the bubbly sweetness. His lungs spasmed, champagne spurted from his nose, and it was all Judd could do to lift his hand to catch the champagne spilling from his nose. He coughed again, and tears stung his eyes.

The man next to him looked up from his Kindle and raised one eyebrow. "Careful with that, it's flammable," he said before pushing his glasses up his nose.

Judd set the glass down and turned his face into the crook of his elbow. "I'm –" he coughed, and his esophagus burned, "I'm– I'm _trying."_

The man chuckled to himself. "Kid, how old are you?"

"Twen–" Judd held up one finger and coughed, taking in a gulp of fresh air. "Twenty-one," he said past the burning sensation in his throat.

"Mmm." The man turned off his Kindle. "I'm not buying it."

"I'm not normally a champagne person."

"If you say so, son."

Normally, Judd hated being called son by anyone – and he still did – but that night, the name "son" hit Judd differently than it ever had. He was someone's son, and he was loved by parents who had seen him in the dumps, at rock bottom, lying in a hospital bed with a gash in his forehead, and even though he had crashed his brand-new truck, even though the front was unrecognizable and it was several thousand dollars down the drain, his parents had smoothed his hair and squeezed his hands and they repeated, over and over to him, that they loved him. They didn't tell him, for a single moment, that what he had done was okay – and he hadn't expected that of them, though maybe a part of him had maybe wanted it – but they reminded him that they loved him.

And he had always set out to test that.

When he was in elementary school, he learned what curse words and PG-13 movies were, and when he would spend the night at a friend's, he would teach his friends some of those curse words or convince him to watch a PG-13 movie, and when his parents caught wind of his foul language and newfound love of PG-13 movies, they shook their heads in disappointment.

But they still loved him.

When he was in middle school, he swallowed his pride and got over the idea that girls had cooties, and he would sneak behind the school building and kiss the girls on the lips and once, he touched a girl's chest, and when his parents caught him doing that, he was sure that would be it, that they wouldn't want to love him anymore, that they would do their duty as parents and wipe their hands clean of him.

But they still loved him.

When he got into high school, he hated his parents. He didn't want them to love him anymore. He was tired of them, he was tired of getting a lecture day in and day out, he was tired of his parents shouting, "Yeah, I love you as you are, but I love you _too much_ for you to stay that way!" If they loved him when he was touching a girl's breasts and cursing and watching movies with nudity, then certainly, partying and drinking and sleeping around and smoking pot would stop that. The first time a classmate offered him a joint, he took it, and he learned how to smoke a joint. He would go to parties, and he would drink as many cans of beer as he could get his hands on, and he would buy condoms from the drugstore with cash, and he would sleep with at least one girl at every party he went to, and he and the girl would lie on the bed, beer on the nightstand, and he would pass her a joint, and they would take the hit together. He bought pot from his friends, from classmates, and he would store it in his desk drawer, and when he would get in a fight with his parents, he would grab a match, a joint, and he would slip out his window and climb onto the roof and smoke the joint until the world dipped and swam around him and he was almost certain he would die if he tried to go back inside.

They didn't know about it, or at least, he didn't think they knew about it, but now that he was on a plane going across the ocean, he knew that they knew.

If the pot hadn't driven them away, if it wasn't enough to get them to stop loving him, then he truly doubted now that there wasn't anything he could do to get his parents to stop loving him. And now that he was on the way to England, he figured that maybe he didn't want them to stop loving him after all, he just wanted to know how far he could push them before they turned him away, and even after all that he'd done – all the lies he'd told, the identity theft, the drugs, the alcohol, the sleeping around – if none of that had stopped them, then maybe they loved him unconditionally. Even if he couldn't feel it, and part of that could be his own fault.

His family loved him when he was the most unlovable. When his friends said he was too much, when he was a jackass with a capital JACKASS, his family said, "We're still here. We still love you." God only knows why.

Judd was someone's son, and even though his parents had done nothing but love him, he had spat in their face and rejected their love. He didn't want it, he wanted something that they refused to give him; he wanted the freedom to self-destruct, and they would grab him and say, "I will not, you are too precious for me to allow that," and he would struggle and they would beg, and he kept saying, "No, _no,_ I don't fucking _want_ this."

He didn't want the champagne anymore. Clearing his throat, he turned to the man beside him. "I think I'm going to try and get some sleep," he said quietly. "Can I put this on your tray table? You can say no."

The man, who most certainly knew that Judd was lying about his age, smiled softly and nodded. "Sure. I hope you don't mind if I don't drink it."

Judd smiled half-heartedly and gently set the glass on the man's tray table. "That's just fine with me."

The cabin lights hummed and flickered in anticipation of the ensuing darkness. Some of the passengers were already asleep, and though Judd wasn't particularly tired, he reclined his seat and curled onto his side, closing his eyes.

He wondered how his parents were going to react – or how they already had reacted – upon finding out that he had run away. When he closed his eyes, he could see his mom pacing the kitchen, holding a shaking hand to her lips while she tried his phone for the sixth time. Dad would slam his fist into the pillar when he figured it out, and he would grab his keys, and he would go driving around for an hour, both to blow off steam and to see if he could pick up Judd's trail. Mom would cry, and she would cry harder than he had ever seen her cry, and her heart would break, and she would wring her hands and pray as much as she remembered, asking God to keep him safe. Dad, on the other hand, would pray for God to keep him safe just so he could kill him when they dragged his ass back home.

And what about Philip and Piper? He had–

He had promised them that they would have a movie night when he got back. He promised them that he would be a good brother, even though he had been addicted to pot, even though he was shit, even though he was the worst brother they could possibly have, and they would forgive him, God, they would fucking _forgive _him and he wondered why the fuck they would ever do that, even though he was hurting the people they loved most in the world, and he couldn't do a damn fucking thing right.

When he started getting clean, Judd had knelt in front of his twin siblings, and he had taken each of their hands, and he had bitten down on his bottom lip against the onslaught of tears that never should have been there, and he said, "I know I haven't been a good brother, but I want to be. I want to be the best big brother you two will ever have." And before he could even ask their forgiveness, before he could ask to slowly come back into their lives, both of them had looked to each other and taken a step forward to wrap their arms around his neck, and he had cried as he held the both of them.

What would they think of him now? What would they think of their big brother, the one who always screwed up and left them hanging in his wake?

Judd wiped his eyes. _I fucking hate myself,_ he thought, and he wanted to go home.

* * *

If Vicki had to place her finger on the biggest tragedy of her life in recent years, she would say that it was Eddie becoming a Christian. He used to be her best friend, her partner in crime, her solidarity partner, but when he wrote her that he was getting clean from everything and going to support groups and church and maybe Mom and Dad were right, Vicki tore up the letter. There went her pot money, though if she were being honest, it was long gone by then. Eddie hadn't sent her any money for drugs for months by the time that letter came in, and besides, Jackson had been arrested for statutory rape. Part of her had wondered if Eddie was the one who had called in the tip and got him arrested, but talk at Prospect High said that Avery Hatherton's mom had caught them fucking on the couch, and anyone who knew the Hathertons knew that they were religious as hell.

In short, Vicki had been looking for a new dealer who could get her decent pot for the past several months, but she was slowly coming off of it, more out of lack of supply and money than anything else. As far as she could tell, only Jackson accepted sex as a method of payment, though some could be swayed once or twice before blacklisting her.

So Vicki was back to sleeping around and drinking whenever she could get her hands on some alcohol, which was far more often than she could get her hands on pot. She didn't mind smoking cigarettes, but the smell was harder to mask.

Ever since her parents had turned their lives around – she refused to admit they were Christians, the very idea that they were caused her stomach to turn – they had made her come to church once a month. And whenever J was there, it was workable, she didn't mind all too much, but then he stopped showing up as often. Occasionally, he would be there on the Sunday her parents had dragged her to church, and on the days after a party they had both been at, they would create a code and discuss last night's sex as best they could remember. J offered to try new positions. She listed her safe words.

Of course, sometimes Vicki went to church more than once a month. These occasions weren't frequent – typically around Easter and Christmas – but occasionally, she would feel so absolutely filthy over the decisions she'd made over the weekend that when the cold showers didn't help wash away the filth and shame, she would walk into the living room, swamped in her brother's hoodie, and she would tell her parents that she would go to church that Sunday.

Thus far, the only two occasions where Vicki had attended church more than once a month – aside from Easter and Christmas – were the Sunday after she had done LSD and the Sunday after she had been part of a threesome. Sex didn't typically make her feel gross, but after that, something just felt wrong, and no amount of showering could make her feel clean again. Her parents didn't ask – having learned that it was better not to ask – and instead took her, but even when she went to church of her own accord, she hated the message, the idea, the people.

And part of her knew that it was because she hated herself, because she knew that these people were better than her, and she hated that, she hated that there were always people better than her. It wasn't because of the message; or not really because of the message, she did hate the message because it condemned her lifestyle of sex on an almost daily basis, of drinking every night, and she wanted to live her life. But once, the assistant pastor challenged the church with the question of what do you do to numb yourself, and she had shut off. Her father had caught her wrist before she could slip away to the bathroom and leaned over to whisper, "Stay. You were the one who wanted to come." And if they hadn't been in a place of worship, she might have clawed at his face.

Even when Clarice, her busmate, would take out her Bible on the ride home, Vicki would scoff and ask her to close it, and she would get mad when Clarice simply said no. Vicki would push her again, and Clarice would lift her chin and remind Vicki that, although she considered her a friend, the world did not revolve around her and she would read her Bible if she so pleased.

It didn't matter, anyways. Vicki knew, better than anyone, that none of these services would stick in her mind, that she would just go home and resume her lifestyle of smoking and drinking and sleeping around, and maybe her parents would know and they'd argue with her with tears in their eyes, and God, Vicki fucking _hoped_ that they would, that they would hit her, because then she could claim that none of this shit worked, that it just made them feel good about themselves, but it wasn't a life change if Dad hit her again or if Mom neglected her again.

But they didn't. They never hit her, never neglected her. They grounded her more often than not, and they wouldn't do anything about the creaky back door so that they knew if she were trying to sneak out. She did everything, everything she could possibly think of to see how far they'd go, how close they'd get to a relapse, but the worst it ever got was her father, with tears in his eyes, slowly sitting on the armrest and saying, "I know you don't care, and I know you hate us, but no matter what you do, I will always love you."

He still loved her. Mom still loved her. Jeannie and Eddie still loved her, even though she was the odd one out, the black sheep – or the red sheep, if you were going by hair color – in the family, even though she was the one still living the same damn life that made her hate herself more and more, that kept her drinking until she couldn't feel a damn thing and all she felt was hollow.

She couldn't take it anymore. So that night, Vicki slipped out the front door and met up with Avery in the bed of Zack's beat-up old truck. None of them were really in the mood to sleep around, though Vicki could be persuaded if any of them – particularly Avery – were to make the first move. Zack and her made out for a little while, but he wasn't good with his tongue, not like J, so she headed home at 1:30 in the morning.

Her mom waited up for her whenever she snuck out. Her curfew was midnight, but Vicki had never paid much attention to it, and she was all too willing to take on whichever lecture her mom had for her, but tonight, she was too high and nauseous to deal with anything. When she saw the light on in the living room, she swore under her breath and made a detour to the back door.

The door creaked open, like Vicki expected it would, but her mom didn't hear her. She bit her lip and took off her shoes, padding back to her room. Maybe it was the high, but the only sound she could hear was that of the radiator. She couldn't even hear her dad's snoring as she passed by his bedroom, but she didn't really care; she just wanted to get in her pajamas and sleep off her high.

However, when she got to her bedroom, she didn't even take off her socks before she collapsed onto her bed and fell asleep.

* * *

Lionel's head snapped up as soon as his chin touched his chest, and he sniffed once, looking around his living room through bleary eyes. As he yawned, not bothering to lift his hand to cover his mouth, Clarice stood from the piano bench.

"I'm going to bed," she said, closing the lid to the keys. "I've got work in the morning."

Lionel curled back up against his uncle's shoulder and André lifted his shoulder to wake him back up. "Little man, you've gotta stay awake with me," André said, miming a punch to Lionel's chin. "You're the one who always helps me set up downstairs."

As Clarice gathered up her things and took the steps two at a time, Lionel figured that, as much as he wanted to get the business of making himself right with his family and God done tonight, it could wait until tomorrow. He could hardly keep his eyes open, and he figured he should be awake for a decision as big as this one. Yawning again, he sat up and shook the cobwebs from his brain.

As he followed his uncle down to the basement, wishing Mama and Daddy a good night, he wondered why he couldn't just take five minutes to run up to Clarice's room, knock on her door, and spill everything to her – that he wasn't a Christian like the rest of the family believed, that he had a glimpse into the future where he was living like André was, that he so desperately wanted the kind of love that Mama and Daddy and Clarice got to experience every day. It wasn't that Lionel didn't have it, he simply rejected it every day and every night, and for once, he wanted to stop rejecting it. Nothing was stopping him. He could just tell André that he had to talk to Clarice real quick and he'd be back in time to help him set up.

But, really, it could definitely wait until tomorrow. He was unlikely to die in his sleep, André certainly was more likely to die in that scenario, and unless Cornelius and LeRoy came for André that night, Lionel was in the clear, for the most part. Obviously, things could happen and no one was guaranteed their next breath, but too many things would have to go wrong.

So, again, he was going to wait, but the back of his mind screamed, begged him, even, to run back up the stairs, all the way to Clarice's room, and tell her. He could see the sorrow on her face, he could see her reaching for her Bible and turning the pages, even as he would say, "No, 'Reece, I already _know_ what's in there, it's not like I don't know the story, it's not like I don't know the book, it's just that I've kept rejecting it and I want to stop." And he would stop, he would stop rejecting that message and that kind of love if only he turned around, went up the stairs, and talked to Clarice. She was the picture of Christ, and even as much as Mama loved Jesus, Lionel couldn't question Reece's faith whenever he saw her.

His mind was screaming at him, and his heart raced, but Lionel just wiped his palms on his pants and chalked it up to anxiety. If something were to happen to Reece overnight, obviously it would be sad, but he had Mama and Daddy and even Ronnie and Talia to turn to. It wasn't like he was going to be hurting for options when morning came.

Mama had left out one set of sheets, three blankets, and their air mattress for them to set up. André chuckled to himself and began unpacking the air mattress. "Hey, Lionel, you wanna blow it up with me? You've got big lungs."

Lionel stopped unfolding the sheets. "Uncle André, that was _bad,"_ but despite himself, he shook his head and laughed softly. "You know that was bad."

"Ronnie and Talia woulda appreciated it." André tossed a pillow at Lionel.

Lionel caught the pillow. "Ronnie is nine and Talia is seven, they don't count." He grabbed the pillow protector and shoved the pillow inside.

André waved a hand in dismissal and hooked up the air mattress. The thing roared to life and Lionel sighed in defeat as soon as it began groaning. He took the second pillow and covered the pillow before retreating to turn off the basement lights. André turned on the lamp next to the couch.

Now that André had been fed, with both jerk chicken and Mama's pecan pie, he was more animated than ever, though Lionel thought part of that had to do with the fact that he felt safer in this neighborhood, that LeRoy and Cornelius couldn't really get him over here without going through Daddy. Over the roar of the air mattress, he started telling Lionel one of his stories about his fianceé. Lionel nodded along at the appropriate moments, turning his back to his uncle to pull off his shirt and sweats, and once the air mattress was finished, he finished setting up the sheets.

André wasn't even close to being done with the story – Lionel had heard it before, it was a bit raunchy for him, but then, André didn't know that he was asexual – but really, Lionel was really tired and all he wanted was to go back to sleep and sleep until the midday sun woke him and Daddy would come down the stairs and threaten to eat the rest of the bacon and eggs if Lionel didn't get his hiney in gear.

Once André crawled into the air mattress next to him, Lionel rolled onto his side and placed his head on his uncle's stomach. Even with his belly laugh, the sound of André's breathing and heartbeat lulled Lionel back to sleep.

He dreamed that Reece kept calling in his name, gesturing for him to come towards her, but he couldn't move. All he remembered was that Reece kept crying and there was a golden light shining on her.

* * *

The night of April 27, while Judd Thompson Jr. was unable to sleep on his way to London, and while Vicki Byrne was in her home, unable to stay awake, and while Lionel Washington was in his basement, unable to listen to his uncle's story, Ryan Daley sulked in his bedroom, texting Raymie about how unfair it was that he wasn't able to stay the night at his house, even though his mom would have to leave him alone early the next morning while he was still sleeping.

Now, it wasn't for lack of trying. Usually, when Mom had to go pick Dad up from the airport, especially early in the morning, Mom would talk to Mrs. Steele and Mrs. Steele would usually allow Ryan to stay over. But maybe it was because Chloe had decided to visit a college friend in Houston or because Mr. Steele was flying tonight or the combination thereof, but Mrs. Steele had said, no, tonight just wouldn't work, but Rayford should be back by Sunday, and she would be much more comfortable if Rayford were there to help with Ryan.

Raymie offered to spend all day on Sunday with Ryan, and when Ryan asked, "**well, don't you go to church every Sunday?"** Raymie responded with, "**yeah, you can join us!"**

Ryan groaned. "Mommmm!"

Mom poked her head into his bedroom. "What is it, oh son of mine, light of my life?"

He rolled his eyes. "Raymie keeps inviting me to church."

Mom sighed and stepped into the room to tousle his hair and close his blinds. "Oh, Ryan, church won't kill you. We go on Christmas Eve and Easter."

"Well, yeah," Ryan said, tucking his phone away while his mom was in the room, "but that's, like, Christmas and Easter. It might as well be the law for everyone who believes enough in that stuff to go."

Mom knelt in front of him. "Ryan, I used to go to church with Aunt Evie. I don't love it and I don't really agree with it, but I promise, there's nothing bad about it. You should go sometime." She stood. "Maybe this weekend _would_ be a good time for you to go."

He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying, "_Why? Just so you and Dad can fight again without me hearing?"_ Instead, he shrugged. "I dunno."

Mom glanced at the phone lying on Ryan's bed. "Well, get to bed. It is past your bedtime, and I need to go pick up your father tomorrow morning."

"Night," he said, moving his pillow back and turning off the lamp. "Love you."

Mom came back long enough to kiss his head. "Goodnight, Ryan, I love you."

As soon as she was back downstairs, he rolled onto his back and grabbed his phone. **Mom says I should go to church with you guys.**

**Awesome! Are you gonna come?**

Ryan bit the inside of his cheek, his thumbs hovering over the keypad. Finally, he sighed softly and typed his response. **Maybe…**

He exited out of the messaging app, knowing that Raymie had to turn in his phone soon, and opened Clash of Clans, keeping his volume off. As the clock drew closer and eventually passed midnight, his eyes got heavier, and he had just finished up this level when he thought he heard his mom. Quickly locking his phone and shoving it underneath his pillow, he waited with baited breath until the sound stopped, and only once the sound was gone, he realized it was a siren. He rolled back onto his side and checked his clock. The time was 1:08 in the morning.

"Geez," he said, rubbing his eyes, "maybe I should get to sleep."

But even when he'd stayed up this late before, he had never heard a siren and never so close to home. Twisting his lips, he threw his covers back and went to his window. There, he could see an orange glow against the sky, flickering like a fire did. To his right, another burst of orange roared, and to his left, still another burst of orange flickered.

Orange flames kept bursting into the sky, flickering in the distance. Some of them died down, and the sirens kept wailing, but most of the fires were just as bright as ever, if they weren't steadily growing brighter.

If he had to bet money, his mom was still awake, so he carefully opened his door, crept downstairs in his socks, and peeked into the living room. If Mom asked anything, he could just say there were a bunch of sirens that woke him up and he just wanted to know what was going on.

When he got downstairs, he had been hoping that Mom had been watching the news, but he found her asleep on the couch with Hallmark playing. She was enough of a light sleeper that changing the channel would wake her up, so he crept to the couch, grabbed the blanket, and carefully draped it over her before heading back upstairs.

It was 1:19 when his mom came back upstairs to check on him, and though she thought he was sleeping, he stared at the wall, his heart racing, and he wondered what would have to happen for the fires to get to their home while Mom was out getting Dad. Was there a crazy arson ring? Gas leaks?

Once Mom closed his door behind her, his fingers itched for his phone, but the sirens sounded farther away, so he closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

He kept hearing the sirens in his dreams.


	6. The Trumpet Calling

"Dad, you really didn't have to do this." Mark grabbed his bag of Doritos and shoved a few into his mouth.

Dad glanced at him. "Why, yes, I did. Can't have my son going to the Regional track tournament and not go and see him."

Mark shook his head and turned to look out the window. Trees passed by his right in a blur of movement, and the moon shone brighter, though the outline of clouds looked like it was going to cover the moon pretty soon, and the light coming from it would be gone. Just as he turned to look back out the windshield, a doe lifted her head and Mark started.

Dad laughed. "Oh, Mark, tell me that little thing didn't scare ya."

Mark breathed out past his lips. "Hey, you would've been startled, too, if you had just been admiring nature and then these two glass eyes are staring at you." Dad shook his head and held out his hand. Mark shoveled a few more Doritos into his mouth and grabbed some jerky. "Here you go."

Dad held up the jerky in thanks and bit into it. "Good job, Mark. I'm proud of you." He took his eyes off the road for a second, and though Mark wanted to look his dad in the eyes while he was congratulating him, the whole idea of getting in a car crash right after the best meet of his life sounded less than ideal. "And not just for getting to State, but for being such a good student and keeping to the honor roll."

Mark winced internally. _If this is going where I think it's going, then this is not going to end well._

Dad sighed. "You're a good kid, but don't think I don't know about you sneaking out to meet Landry every night or those parties you throw when your mom and I are out of town."

Mark groaned and rested his head on the window. "How'd you know about that?"

"John can't tell a lie to save his life, you should know that better than anyone."

Mark lolled his head and watched the clouds catch up to the moon. It was so bright, and in all his years of learning about astronomy, he had never heard of the moon shining as bright as it was now. "I knew I shouldn't have asked John to help me set that up."

"So I guess it comes as no surprise when I tell you that you're grounded. You can still go to track practice because I'm not taking State away from you, but I am taking away your phone and your tv and even your computer. And before you say anything, I know that it's a school computer, but I'm the tech genius, remember? I know how to shut off all the games and social media sites. You'll be so bored that track will be your reprieve."

Mark pursed his lips. "I suppose I deserve that, huh?"

Dad snorted. "Son, you know as well as I do that I did the same stupid stunts you did, and I can look back on that and laugh, but I'm not forgetting the punishment." He turned his eyes away from the road again, and though Mark wanted to watch the road, he lolled his head to see his father better. "Besides, I'm gonna have a blast seeing you just twiddling your thumbs."

"I'll just wake up earlier and go running," Mark said, Dorito poised to enter his mouth.

Whenever he talked about this trip in the years to follow, he always hated that the following words came from his mouth, that he told everyone that he never forgot what happened next. Some people tell him that it couldn't have really happened, that he hadn't seen what he said he did, but Mark knew what he saw. He knew that he hadn't blinked, wanting to see his dad laugh and try to refute him.

His dad disappeared right in front of his eyes.

Mark knew his dad had been there a hundredth of a second ago. He saw his dad's hand on the steering wheel, his dad's glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, the other hand reaching for another piece of beef jerky. He saw his dad open his mouth to respond and say something that probably would have sounded a lot like, "at least you'll get more stuff done and you won't have to stay up as late," and Mark was ready to stick his tongue out at him and call him old.

He knew what he saw, and he saw his dad in front of him one second, and exactly one second later, his dad was gone.

His jacket, sporting the Prospect High logo, deflated against the seat. His watch dropped to the floor. His glasses fell to the seat.

Dad simply…wasn't there anymore.

And Mark certainly needed to process this, the fact that his dad had just disappeared in front of his eyes and what that meant – though he really knew all along, and the second or third thought he had after the initial "what the hell, this is impossible" was the knowledge that he knew what had just happened and he had ignored every warning – but his eyes snapped to the windshield, and he saw a car barreling towards them – him – and he tossed his Dorito bag aside, grabbed the steering wheel, and jerked it to the right. Though that got him off the path of the car, he saw the trees, and he unbuckled, hand still on the steering wheel, and climbed into the driver's seat. He didn't have enough time to turn the car away from the trees, so he just slammed his foot against the brakes, and when the car crashed into the tree and the airbags deployed, he was still alive.

Shaking. Pale. Terrified. But alive.

He took a deep breath, and looked around him. He was sitting where his dad had just been a minute ago, and after the airbag deflated, he pressed a hand to his forehead and reached for his phone.

The phone rang three times and finally, at 1:05 in the morning, his best friend picked up. "What are you calling me for at one in the freaking morning?"

Mark took another deep breath. "John," he said, "guess what just happened."


	7. Judd Returns Home

No matter how much Judd tried to sleep, the image of his family kept flashing behind his eyelids. All he could see was all of them crying, Piper and Mom most of all. Philip would be angry, probably wouldn't ever talk to Judd again, and Dad would be fighting tears, trying to stay strong long enough to find Judd and drag his ass back to the States.

He knew what was happening back home, and he knew no one in his family was going to sleep a wink tonight, even if Mom and Dad made Piper and Philip go to bed.

And the image of his siblings crying in their beds, of Dad having to wrap Mom in his arms while he himself trembled with fear, kept him awake.

Judd sniffed and wiped his nose with his index finger. The longer he thought about his family – and he really had no idea how he was going to crawl out of this one, he knew that he would never be let out of his parents' sight once he got home – the more his mind buzzed with everything that was happening, and he just wanted to sleep. Even the thought of V kept him awake, and he wondered how she was doing; she wouldn't know, of course, what he had elected to do, nor would she notice if he were gone for the rest of his high school career. Sometimes, when he couldn't fall asleep back home, he would roll onto his back and run through every _V_ name and try and assign one to her, and he would imagine sitting next to her at Liesel's Coffee Shop, and he would imagine that she would order something a lot like tea or hazelnut coffee and he would make a stupid joke and she would roll her eyes and lift her mug to her lips. He would imagine all of these things, and as soon as he rolled onto his side, the image would be gone. She disappeared from him, and he would reach out, brushing the air next to him, and he was reminded that she didn't know who he was, nor did she particularly care.

So when he thought about her on April 27, on his way to London, he lifted his hand, just like he always did, and he knew she wasn't there, that she blew away with the wind, and he reminded himself that he was alone, he was so very alone.

Maybe he shouldn't think about anything or anyone in the Mount Prospect area, at least if he wanted to get some sleep before landing in London.

He let himself wonder what his probably two days of freedom would be like. Certainly, he hoped he would have more than that, but if he knew his parents, they'd find out and get him within two days, and he didn't particularly feel like making his way through Europe to avoid them.

Judd smiled to himself as he saw himself going to a pub and flirting with a beautiful British dame, and they would kiss under the stars, and maybe he would go to bed with her, maybe he wouldn't, but he would give her all the right lines. Or maybe he would visit Big Ben and learn the history of London, or he would hit up local restaurants and tea parlors.

Or, really, he would find a hotel and stay there for most of the first day and what little he had of the second day.

Regardless of what he was going to do in London, the very idea of the foggy city, of crowded walkways, of pubs and starlight, made him fall asleep. He curled further into himself and rested his head against his hand.

* * *

Judd woke up with a sneeze that propelled him out of his reclining position. One man next to him – Judd was fairly certain it was Cameron Williams, also known as Buck, who was a reporter for _Global Weekly_ – looked up from his newspaper and whispered, "Bless you" across the aisle.

Judd nodded and yawned. "Thanks," he said past his yawn.

Buck Williams chuckled to himself and resumed reading.

Judd blinked himself back awake, at least for a little while, and looked around the plane. Aside from Mr. Williams, most everyone was asleep. The man next to him had finally shut off his Kindle and now slept with his head against the back of the seat, a blanket folded neatly in his lap and the air pointed directly at his face. Once Judd saw the blanket, he looked down at his own body, where a scratchy blanket covered his torso and most of his legs.

_So that's why I sneezed._ Judd yawned again, resolving that he would go back to sleep as soon as the flight attendant passed by again and he could thank her for the blanket.

He fiddled with his watch and stared at the hair of the lady in front of him, and he wondered what his parents were doing now. It was almost one back in Chicago, and Judd knew, without a doubt, that when his parents found him, they would be sleepless, and though they'd be pissed as all hell, they would wrap him in their arms and tell him to pack his things back up.

He wondered if both parents would come to get him, or if only his father would show up, his face pale, bags underneath his eyes, cheeks gaunt; Dad would stand across the hall from Judd, and he would twirl the keys in his hand and say, desperately, quietly, "Judd, please just come _home."_ And Judd would. He would grab his backpack, head bowed low, and he would never tell his father that he almost gave up on this runaway dream, and he would take whatever punishment his parents gave him, even if it was prison. Would his dad be crying? Had Judd hurt his father enough to make his old man finally shed tears?

The flight attendant passed him by, and though she was pretty – gorgeous, really – Judd couldn't think that she was so pretty as to get tongue tied. He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, ma'am," he whispered. When she turned around, he lifted the blanket and smiled at her. "Thanks for the blanket."

The flight attendant's face softened and she pointed to the man sitting next to Judd. "He asked for it for you. I'm glad you like it."

Judd didn't notice her leave. He just turned his head to see the man sitting next to him, and part of him wanted to wake him and ask why he was treating him so kindly, but the other part of Judd knew the answer to that question.

Pulling the blanket up to his chin, Judd turned onto his side and fell back asleep.

* * *

Judd wasn't asleep for long.

Later, when he checked his watch, the time said he'd only been asleep for five or six minutes when he was awoken by the flight attendant running down the aisle and Cameron Williams folding his newspaper with an air of authority and the whispers carrying over the cabin.

But before Judd woke up, he could swear he had dreamt about his family. Mom had waved goodbye to him, and Piper had bit her lip before waving. Philip sighed and just gave him a nod, and then the three of them were gone. But Dad…

Dad had knelt in front of him, placed his hand on his shoulder, and looked into Judd's eyes through the tears in his own. Dad didn't have the words at first, floundering like a fish out of water for the words, and he finally sniffled, rested his forehead against Judd's, and said, "Take care of yourself, alright? Seven years isn't gonna be easy."

Judd startled awake, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest, and he was convinced, more than ever, that once his parents found him, he was going to be charged with identity theft and sentenced to seven years in prison. Doing his research maybe hadn't been the best idea in his lifetime.

Out of habit, he glanced at his watch and furrowed his brow. "The hell?" he murmured, pushing himself into a sitting position. It was only 1:09, and he'd only been asleep for a couple minutes. Nowhere near long enough to have a dream, even though dreams last only a few seconds.

When he glanced next to him, thinking that he'd thank the man for the blanket, Judd's mouth fell open. The man wasn't there, and Judd wondered if him trying to squeeze past to go to the bathroom was what woke Judd up. It was unlikely, but possible.

As he tried to make sense of it, the flight attendant – her name was Hattie, if Judd recalled correctly – rushed by. It wasn't the typical clipped walk that a flight attendant would normally have; she jogged down the aisle, biting down on her lip, and she moved so fast that Judd could smell her perfume even once she reached the cockpit.

And that worried him.

He sat up further, wondering if his seatmate had gone to the bathroom, only to have a heart attack, and that's why she was in such a hurry. He turned his head, locking eyes with the reporter, and Mr. Williams jerked his head back towards Hattie. "Did you see her?" he mouthed.

Judd nodded and leaned across the aisle. "Looked like she was crying."

Mr. Williams nodded slowly. "That's what I thought, too." He shrugged. "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

Judd smiled humorlessly. "Are you telling me that because you believe that or because I'm young and you don't want to worry me?"

Mr. Williams huffed out a laugh. "I suppose it's the latter. I'm sorry."

Up front, the pilot stepped out of the cockpit and grabbed Hattie's elbows. Though their voices were hushed, Judd could hear the increasing desperation in the pilot's voice, and he took a deep breath, looking around the cabin. Hattie gripped his arms and she was scared enough that her voice carried over to Judd.

"What do we do, Ray?"

_What the hell is going on?_ Thinking that Hattie was too preoccupied to notice him standing, he unbuckled his seatbelt and glanced around the cabin. Though the lights were dim and he had to squint, he saw that there were more empty seats than there had been seven minutes ago. Seven minutes ago, before he had gone back to sleep, every seat was full. There was no way this many people could be going to the bathroom or waiting in line to use the restroom.

Two rows ahead of him, there was an old woman who reminded him of a smaller, frailer version of Betty White, and she lifted her hand to her chest. "Oh, dear, Harold, what have you done now?"

Mr. Williams glanced back at Judd, and Judd shrugged. Mr. Williams bit his lip, unbuckled, and gently touched the woman's shoulder. "Ma'am?"

The old lady turned her eyes to Mr. Williams. "It's my husband, you see," she said quietly. Judd glanced at the flight attendant and pilot again before taking a half step forward to hear and see better.

Mr. Williams furrowed his brow. "What about him?"

"Well…" the woman sighed. "He's gone!"

_Gone._

Judd, one hand braced on the back of the seat in front of him, twisted his head to look around. His eyes scanned each row among first class, and though he had no idea what was going on in coach, he could only assume it was more of the same.

At least twelve people, including Harold and the man sitting next to Judd were gone.

The old lady handed a shirt to Mr. Williams. "Can you take this and see if he's gone to the restroom?"

"Hattie, are you _sure_ these people are just…missing?"

"Ray, what _happened?"_

_Gone._

Judd's eyes scanned each row of first class again, taking another mental count, and when his eyes came up with twelve missing people, he looked again. Three couples were gone. Harold. Presumably other singles, or other people on business, away from their families. The little girl sitting behind Mr. Williams.

_Gone._

People don't just disappear. His heart hammered in his chest, beating out a drumbeat louder than anything he'd ever heard. Blood rushed through his ears, and he wiped his right hand on his jeans.

_Gone._

As Mr. Williams took Harold's shirt, confusion in his eyes, Judd glanced at the seat next to him. Shirt, pants, jacket, glasses, blanket folded neatly on top of the pants.

_Gone._

His mind raced. He went through everything he had heard in the past year, sorting through the information and discarding it as he concluded that it was irrelevant. When he thought about church, his mind flashed a siren, and he didn't even have to think about which church service this connected to, which church service had predicted this very thing.

_Gone._

Judd's knees weakened, and he gasped. "Oh, _shit."_

* * *

Questions of epilepsy, of sleepwalking, aliens, nuclear radiation. _Maybe it was an intricate kidnapping,_ someone on the plane said, and Judd shuddered, wanting to scream that no, it wasn't, couldn't they see that? It wasn't epilepsy, it wasn't sleepwalking, aliens didn't exist, and if it was nuclear radiation, why weren't all of them gone?

Epilepsy made sense for one person, and so did sleepwalking.

Buck Williams, for the life of him, had no idea what Judd knew, and he gently rested his hand on the old lady's shoulder and asked, once again, if her husband had epilepsy or a history of sleepwalking.

Judd bit the inside of his cheek, and all he wanted was to grab his laptop and throw it at the window and scream, _Don't ask her if her husband had epilepsy or if he was a sleepwalker, fucking ask if he was a Christian!_

Little kids, dental fillings. Empty clothes, watches, and wallets left in the seats. People were gone, disappeared out of thin air, and it happened in the six minutes while he had fallen asleep.

The old lady held a hand up to her chest. "Why, no," she told Buck Williams, and Judd was shaking now, clutching the back of the seat in front of him like the lifeline that it was. He couldn't breathe. His chest tightened, and he felt like he was dying, dying, like he wanted to cry, like he wanted to die, except he couldn't, all he could do was stare at the seat next to him and the clothes left behind, and he wondered what the trumpets sounded like, if he would ever get the chance to hear them one day.

His hands shook.

Questions of aliens and Russia and Iran, and fuck, Judd knew it wasn't _any_ of that, but he couldn't speak, the words couldn't come, and he hadn't touched a joint in seven months, but he needed it right now, he fucking needed that or a bottle of vodka, he just needed to get this out of his mind, he needed to fuck himself up because _he couldn't be right._

He had been wrong.

He called bullshit on this entire fucking thing, thought it was just a Christian philosophy that was based on a verse that didn't mean what people took it to mean. It was _bullshit,_ and he wanted to call bullshit again, but it was really fucking hard to do when there were people missing and the only explanation that made sense was the trumpet calling, the Rapture, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it.

His hands shook, and his chest rose and fell quickly as he tried to get oxygen into his lungs. They were dying, dying, why weren't the oxygen masks coming down?

Questions of epilepsy and sleepwalking and schizophrenia, maybe, and Judd choked on a sob and collapsed into his chair, and his shoulders shook with sobs that wouldn't leave his mouth.

_God,_ he thought, blinking quickly and turning his eyes to the sky. _God, if it's not too late, let me be wrong. Let me be wrong, please, I fucking beg you, let me be wrong. Give me another chance, I know I've screwed up but give me another shot, I can't lose everyone I've ever loved to this._

And Judd had never heard God's voice a day in his life, had never cared to hear it, but his heart squeezed as a whisper overcame him, and the words echoed in his mind:

**You're right, Judd. They're gone, they're with me. But don't lose hope.**

And who the fuck was God to say that? _Don't lose hope,_ what kind of _bullshit_ God would say that when Judd was all of sixteen fucking years old and he had no one, he literally had no one in his life anymore?

He was dying.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he swallowed past his panic, despair, choked on tears that wanted to escape, and he blinked at the eyes of Buck Williams.

"Hey, kid, are you alright?"

Judd's chest rose rapidly. "What the hell do you think?"

Buck put both hands on Judd's shoulders and held eye contact. "What's your name, kid?"

"Judd."

"Okay, Judd, it's just– it's just a bad dream, you're going to be fi–"

Judd pushed Buck's hand off his shoulder. "It's not a fucking bad dream, Mr. Williams. I've had some bad fucking dreams, I know what the fuck a bad dream is, and this isn't a dream, it's fucking reality, and I can't fucking deal with it."

Buck's eyebrows furrowed together. "What do you think it is, son?"

"Oh, don't give me that _bullshit,_ you're not my dad, you don't care –"

"Judd!" Buck shook him once. "I need you to at least be quiet, okay? Not everyone knows yet, and if you start panicking, then everyone else on the plane is going to panic, okay? I get it, you're having a panic attack, and I'm trying to help you through that."

Judd laughed bitterly, ducked his head, and lifted one hand in a thumbs-up. "You're doing a bang-up job so far, Buck."

"Judd, can you do me a favor?"

He swallowed heavily and pushed a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah, I know, calm, deep breaths." He closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly, hoping that Buck's encouraging words would help, but his heart rate spiked, and he took another shuddering breath.

Buck swore under his breath, barely loud enough for Judd to hear, and stood to move into the seat next to Judd, but he caught Buck's wrist and shook his head.

"No," he whispered hoarsely. "The guy next to me disappeared. I– I didn't see it, but I just…I need time to process it, okay?"

Buck squeezed Judd's shoulder. "Judd, what do you think happened?"

Judd pressed his lips together and looked out the window. "Hey, Buck, you ever heard of this thing called the Rapture?"

* * *

When Judd used to be scared of tornadoes – not that he wasn't still scared of tornadoes – he would panic upon hearing the tornado sirens. Mom would always hold him and rock him back and forth, but Dad thought it best to teach him a song. The first time, Judd thought it would be something like "Jesus Loves Me," but his dad taught him "Counting Stars" and tonight, on the airplane, halfway across the Atlantic Ocean, the song was the only thing that calmed him down.

People still debated whether it was aliens or nuclear radiation.

Judd knew there would be nothing in that man's pile of clothes to show that he was a Christian, he knew that wasn't how most Christians operated anymore, but he needed to do something, and the idea of checking his laptop or his phone was too much for him, so he did the one thing he absolutely shouldn't have done:

He thought about his family.

They were all gone, he knew. If all the little kids had disappeared, there was no question that Philip and Piper were gone, even though he knew that both of them were Christians. Judd wondered if his dad had disappeared while driving and what that would entail for anyone else on the road while that happened. He thought Mom might be home, to be with Philip and Piper while Dad looked around, and her clothes would be lumped into a pile on one of the armchairs.

_Fuck,_ he thought, and Judd suddenly felt very young and very afraid. He was virtually an orphan; maybe his parents hadn't physically died, but it was the same, wasn't it? He was very alone, all alone, and if he didn't feel so afraid, he would maybe laugh at the irony. He had wanted this, hadn't he? He had wanted to be alone, to taste independence, to prance around the world on his dad's dime and claim that he could handle himself perfectly.

Only the thing was, he signed up for two days' worth of freedom, and he was staring at about seven years' worth of freedom. Give or take. Depended on the decisions he made in the next few hours.

_I just want to go home,_ he thought. _I just want this all to be a bad dream that I get to wake up from, and I get to crawl into Mom and Dad's bed and say sorry for all the shit I've pulled and I could promise Philip and Piper that this time, I definitely will be a better brother._

But he had no idea if home even stood anymore. He had no idea if there was something on the stove that could catch fire and destroy everything he'd ever had of his family, everything he had to remember them by.

There wasn't anything for him to go back to, no little siblings that he could hug and apologize to and kiss their heads, no Mom or Dad to hold him with a death-like grip while beginning a lecture. There was nothing, no home, no one left to love, and Judd wondered if it would just be better for the plane to plummet into the ocean.

His hands shook again. In fact, they really hadn't stopped shaking, but his breathing had steadied for a few minutes.

He would never see Philip and Piper grow up. He would never get the opportunity to threaten Piper's boyfriend(s) who came a-knocking on the door, nor would he ever be able to give Philip love advice on any girls. When they started learning how to drive, he wouldn't be able to sit in the passenger seat, slamming his invisible brake and muttering under his breath that this was just God getting back at him.

Judd Thompson Jr. was sixteen years old and he had nothing.

Looking out the window again, he took a shuddering breath and buried his face in his hands. _Get it together,_ he said to himself, hoping that the words of his football coach would strengthen him, but his shoulders heaved, and he lifted his head from his hands and swiped at stray tears.

Hattie took a deep breath and touched his shoulder. "Mr. Thompson, are you missing anyone in your party?"

His mouth was dry, and he would almost take the champagne, down it in one gulp, just to take his mind off everything, but he knew that, even if his family was gone, he needed– it wasn't okay. "No," he said. His tongue felt like sandpaper. "I was the only one in my party, but the guy next to me disappeared."

As she left him, Judd glanced at the seat next to him.

He could have had one last night with his family. Hell, he could have been with his family, completely free from this kind of pain, but he knew that nothing was strong enough to convince him of that anytime but now.

The pilot announced that, since they hadn't reached the halfway point yet, they were going to turn around. Some people cheered. Judd almost joined them, giddy with the hope that he could catch his parents, that he would return the wad of cash and apologize, that he could burst into his siblings' rooms and hug them and tell them that, yes, he was the worst big brother in the world, but he would make it up to them for the rest of his life.

He curled his hands into fists and bit his bottom lip. Turning his face away, back to the window, he let tears stream down his face.

His family wasn't going to be there, and he was all alone, today and every day for the rest of his life.

* * *

When they first started flying over land again, it was hard to tell how bad the destruction is, since it was so dark. The only information they received about the destruction on the ground is that the airports at the coast were jammed and/or closed, and Judd was partially glad for that, they would be going back home, and he could stop the fire – hopefully – if there was one at his home.

Really, all he hoped for was that he was wrong. There was no evidence that he was, and he would bet every penny now left to him that he was right, but everything in him prayed that he was wrong.

How could God call this good? How could his family believe in a God that would leave him all alone, left behind, to pick up the pieces?

It hurt.

On the turnaround flight home, Judd curled up in his chair and held his hands to his chest while he stared at the empty seat next to him.

To think that he would never be called "son" again, to think that there was no longer anyone on this planet who loved him enough to keep him from self-destructing, to think that there was no longer anything for him to go back home to…

(And this, he thought was the tragedy: he was an orphan, he was loveless, he was selfish and stupid and he deserved this, and there was nothing that dictated that the next few years were worth living.

He had told himself that seven years without seeing his little brother was a long time, but if Dr. Billings was right, and if he lived through the entirety of the Tribulation, he was going to have to wait a minimum of seven years to see his little brother again.

Seven years was a long time to miss somebody.)

Judd's fingers continued to itch for a joint, and the only thing that was stopping him from calling his pot dealer was the knowledge that, as soon as everyone knew what was going on, the weed would be long gone and he wouldn't be able to get it for all the money in the world. It wasn't that he didn't want it, that he wouldn't have bought fifteen grams and smoked it all away the next day, it was that there was none left for him.

There wasn't anyone to stop him anymore.

Except there was, and he saw, in the back of his mind, his mom and siblings crying and his dad saying that he didn't care right now, he was just glad that Judd was alive and they were doing this in a hospital instead of in a morgue.

They weren't there, they couldn't physically stop him, but he could see his parents pleading with him, just in their eyes, for him to do his best, to make it as much as he could, and his fingers twitched. He wanted that joint. He wanted a drink, he wanted to get hammered, hell, maybe he'd fuck someone. He needed to numb himself.

But by the time they landed, two miles away from the airport, Judd's heart had already numbed itself and neither drugs nor alcohol nor sex would numb him anymore than he already was.

The blood rushed through Judd's ears as he tucked his phone – still turned off – in his pocket and started running back to the airport. Based on the fires and wrecks around him, the sobbing parents and weeping sisters and brothers, he wouldn't be able to get his dad's car out of the parking garage, but he could get a taxi. People were asking a high price, and Judd had the money to buy it.

Even with the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and even with his experience in football, cross country, baseball, and basketball, getting to the airport took him about twenty minutes; though, in his defense, he was picking his way through the rubble.

He stopped and rested his hands on his knees. His body was shaking from head to toe, and he felt faint. His health class would say that he was coming off an adrenaline high, and he needed to get somewhere and take a break for a little while. Judd found an unoccupied tree and pressed his back to the bark, finally pulling his phone from his back pocket and turning it on.

Judd knew, logically, that he would have a ton of missed calls and texts from his parents, likely with harsh language, and he couldn't bring himself to look at them until he was back home, all alone, and he could throw things at the wall and pound his fists against the floor. Maybe he'd break some glass.

He had 43 missed calls from Mom and another 43 missed calls from Dad. That, coupled with the literal hundreds of text messages, meant that they were looking for him when they disappeared. Judd knew that, of course; he didn't want to know that, but he had known. The last text from his mom had come about a minute before the disappearances. Since then, the only texts he had were sparse, from a few friends.

Most of the texts that weren't from his parents were from kids in his youth group, kids he didn't try and associate with but sometimes he did because they were actually kind of cool. Someone – Taylor, he thought – texted him with: **hey man, all of us are really worried about you. Where are you? Are you safe? Are you gonna come home?**

The last text Taylor sent him was: **Look, I know you don't buy it, but we're all praying for you. For you to be safe or for your parents not to kill you when they inevitably find out where you were. But for real, we're praying and we're worried.**

Judd swallowed heavily and looked up from his phone. The day should be cloudy, shouldn't it? It should be a downpour of rain, maybe even a tornado to enhance the mood, but the sun shone brightly on all of them. The grass was green, flowers popped up at his feet, and it was all wrong. This wasn't how the worst day of his life should look. English teachers taught him that.

Except it was, and the English teachers were wrong.

He cleared his throat and exited out of his conversation with Taylor. Another of his friends, not in his youth group, texted him an hour ago: **Dude, do you know what the fuck's going on**

Judd smiled tightly and forced himself to reply. **I think I have an idea, but don't quote me on it yet. You good?**

_Of course he wasn't good,_ Judd thought to himself, tucking his phone back into his pocket and taking off for the line of taxis. _No one is going to be fucking okay for a while, if they're ever going to be okay again._

He shouldered his way to the front of the line, to the dismay of everyone around him. One man caught his shoulder and socked him in the eye. Instead of fighting back – and he had the power and energy to – he simply sighed and continued to shoulder his way past. "Hey, driver?" he said, tapping on the window to a taxicab.

The driver rolled down the window and studied him. "I'm not driving you for anything less than a thousand cash. Go to the back of the line, kid."

Judd shrugged and pulled his backpack off his shoulder, digging around the pocket for the money he'd stolen from his father. It didn't matter anymore, did it? It wasn't like he could pay his father back, at least for another seven years.

"Here's fifteen hundred," he said, pressing the roll of cash into the driver's hand. "Now can you take me home?"

* * *

He used to want to have a dog.

All his best friends had dogs, and they were all cute. Judd had Philip and Piper, and at the time, they were just little babies, and his father – not wanting to deal with two babies and a puppy – told Judd, "No."

Judd had tried to argue. Had tried to prove that he would be responsible, but his dad, who knew him better than he knew himself, simply raised an eyebrow and went to change Philip's diaper.

On the drive back to his home, Judd saw a dozen dogs left all alone by the fences, chained down, and their eyes begged for someone to come rescue them. One dog sat next to his owner, who lay dead on the sidewalk.

Judd had no idea what killed him. Survivor's guilt, maybe. He could sympathize. God only knew how much he just wanted it to end. Maybe he'd get lucky and go into a seven-year coma and wake up when everything was all fine and dandy.

The driver finally pulled up to Judd's house three hours later. It normally would have taken twelve minutes, but between all of the rubble and emergency vehicles, it shouldn't have surprised Judd that it took as long as it did.

He stared at the house, and it looked bigger and emptier than it ever had. There weren't people in it, not anymore. He was alone, and he would have to go through his family's belongings and pack everything up, and he'd have to face the music.

After paying $1500 to get home, he suddenly didn't want to be home anymore.

Judd sighed and stepped out of the taxi. As he slung his backpack onto his shoulder, the driver nodded sympathetically. "Well, good luck, kid. I hope you find what you're expecting."

Judd looked over his shoulder and took a shuddering breath. "I hope like hell that I don't," and he closed the door.


	8. Vicki's Sad Awakening

Sunlight, Vicki had decided, must have been created by the devil.

Mostly, she said that because she knew her parents would hate it, and it would start another argument about using heresy in this kind of household, and she would smirk and laugh to herself and continue to believe that a loving God would not create sunlight so it could shine through the slats on her window to wake her up after one hell of a bender the night before.

The sun hurt more than it typically did after a night like the one she'd had, but maybe the alcohol was stronger than usual or the marijuana was made to take a bigger hit. Hell, she could have been drugged last night and she would have been fine until the recovery period. It wasn't like any of them had done anything they hadn't wanted to do.

Regardless, the sunlight tried to wake her up, and Vicki just groaned and covered her head with a pillow to block out the offensive light.

Thinking typically hurt after a bender, but this morning, she couldn't help but think. She kept it to short sentences, short thoughts, so that her head wouldn't pound anymore, but she could still only hear the hum of the radiator. There was no noise in the bedroom, not the sound of Jeannie's breathing, not the shuffle of her dad's socks against the floor outside, nor the whistle coming from the teapot her mom always put on. They were quiet, for once, and Vicki reluctantly lifted her shirt and sniffed it.

Okay, yep, she could smell the booze on her person.

She flopped back against her bed, pulling the pillow more tightly around her head and fell back asleep. When she woke up for the second time – once again, against her will – it was not because of the sunlight, which was brighter and harsher, but because of the primal panic instinct stirring in her gut.

Vicki knew that instinct. She typically didn't listen to it, but the smell reached her nose, her brain screamed _Fire!_ at her despite her hangover, and she practically tripped out of bed as she tossed her pillow to the floor and crashed to the ground. The teapot hissed at its contortion, black smoke curling, flames licking at the bottom of the pot, and Vicki didn't have much time to think, she grabbed the hem of her shirt, wrapped her hand around the handle, and yelped when the pot made contact with her skin.

Her hands shook from the pain, and she blinked back tears, ripping open the drawer that held the potholders. She bent down, hissing as her burn spread across her stomach, and picked the pot, this time with a potholder, and threw it in the sink. The teapot hissed but quieted down.

Vicki lifted her shirt to examine the damage. It wasn't anything too bad, she didn't think it would be, but it hurt like a bitch, so she grabbed a towel, doused it in cold water, and held it to her stomach. She sighed in relief when the cold cloth touched her skin.

Now that her burn was being taken care of, she wondered why in the hell no one noticed, "_Hey, maybe the trailer is going to catch on fire and we'll all die, maybe someone should put it out."_

She rolled her neck and glanced out the window and nearly dropped the towel when she saw her dad's beat-up old pickup truck still in the driveway. At closer glance, as she stepped closer to the window, she saw her mom's car, and she knew for a fact that the only day her parents ever took off from any of their jobs was Sunday.

"Goddamn, what time is it?"

She would have believed exactly three different times: eight in the morning, nine in the morning, or seven in the morning. You could have told her any of these, and she would have believed you, would have nodded and said, "Seems right," before she continued on her merry way back to bed.

Except at seven in the morning, a few people were waking up to disaster. At eight in the morning, most everyone knew about it. And at nine in the morning, everyone – sans Vicki Byrne – knew what was going on. At nine in the morning, Vicki was still passed out in bed.

So when she saw that it was fifteen past noon, she swore and threw the towel onto the counter. "Mom! Dad! Where are you?" She hurried past her parents' bedroom and shook her head when she found it empty at first glance.

No one had cared to wake her up, and regardless of what was going on, it didn't matter to her.

Except when Vicki stepped back into the room she shared with her little sister, she stopped cold. Jeannie was supposed to go to the pool with that kid from church today, and she had been so excited for the past month that she was counting down on her calendar. Her clothes had been set out yesterday morning, before Vicki woke up for school. Jeannie should have been at the pool, and that was where Vicki expected their parents to also be.

But Jeannie's clothes were still folded on her chair.

Vicki's heart stopped. "Oh, God, Jeannie, are you okay?" She ran to her little sister's bed, but upon finding that her sister wasn't there, she ran back into the living room. "Mom, Dad, where's Jeannie? What's happened to her?"

Again, the only sound was the radiator and the teapot slowly cooling down.

Vicki shook her head. "Fuck this, I'll figure it out myself."

She had intended to grab her dad's keys and drive around the city to find where they'd taken her little sister and why they hadn't used his car – and part of her was terrified that Jeannie had gotten seriously hurt the night before while she was out on a bender and that was why everything was so quiet – but she stopped on the way down her steps.

The entire trailer park was going crazy. She had never seen so much booze, never seen as much crying as she had now. Zack sat on the tree stump outside his trailer, staring a thousand yards in front of him. He was high, she knew, fucked up beyond measure, and she almost wanted to laugh at him for the hangover he was about to suffer, but he grabbed a bottle and smashed it over his hand.

She screamed.

Vicki stumbled down the rest of the steps, her eyes fixated on Zack's hand, bleeding profusely, shards of glass sticking out of his skin, drops of blood dripping onto the grass beneath him. When his other hand moved to grab the glass, she turned her head and ran into Shelly.

Shelly stumbled, off course, but she was about to keep walking. Not wanting her to see Zack in his state, Vicki grabbed Shelly's arms and gently shook her.

"Shelly? Shel, I'm glad to see you." Vicki licked her lips and cupped her friend's cheek. "What's wrong? Why is everyone freaking out?" Shelly, while nearly as pale as Vicki, looked whiter than her today. Her face was so devoid of color that she almost looked gray, that she looked like a shell of herself. Vicki tilted her head. "Shel?"

Shelly blinked once. "Haven't you heard?" There was no emotion in her voice anymore. Shelly was steady, her skin cold, and Vicki's heart stopped when the thought of Shelly doing hard drugs crossed her mind. Her free hand slipped to Shelly's wrist and she pressed two fingers to the pulse point and sighed in relief when she felt a steady throb. Nothing faint or thready.

Vicki pressed her lips together and shook her head. Zack wailed eight yards away, and she saw one of the burlier men rush towards him. To fight him or keep him from killing himself, Vicki didn't know, nor did she want to know. "Heard what? I- I'm sorry, I've been asleep for the past several hours."

A breath blew past Shelly's lips, almost like a departing sigh. "People are gone, Vick. Dis- disappeared. Right out of their clothes."

_Where's Jeannie?_ Vicki wanted to scream, but she simply swallowed past the knot in her throat and held Shelly's eyes. "What do you mean 'disappeared?' That doesn't– that doesn't happen, Shel."

The faintest trace of a smile flickered on Shelly's lips.

"_Let me die!"_ Zack shouted, kicking against the burly man. Vicki knew his name. She didn't want to remember it.

"I watched it happen, Vick. I felt it happen. People are gone. Some of the adults here, but all of the little kids." For the first time, tears sprang into Shelly's eyes, and she lifted a shaking hand to her lips. "All –"

Vicki's hand fell from Shelly's face. "_What do you mean?"_

Shelly shoved her, and Vicki stumbled back. "People are gone! They're not coming back! I can't spell it out for you!"

"No one just disappears –"

"Yeah, well, they _did._ Look around, Vicki. The Grants, the Forsters, the Fishers, they're _all gone."_

_Grants._

Her parents' friends, they hosted the Bible studies that converted her mom and helped her dad get better.

_Forsters._

The only Catholic family in the park, but they would join with Mom, Dad, and the others on occasion to study the Bible.

_Fishers._

The youngest Christian family in this park, the ones Mom and Dad had decided to mentor while watching their kids.

Vicki ran back up her steps and threw the front door open. "Mom?! Dad?! Jeannie?!" She pushed her hands through her hair, not realizing they were shaking until she pulled her hands away and they felt too charged with energy, like they wanted to fly away from her, away from this hellscape. Taking a deep breath, she curled her hands into fists and uncurled them, blowing a breath of cool air past her lips. Her mom's favorite chair was right there. She could confirm or deny Shelly right now.

She didn't want to look.

She looked.

Her mother's robe lumped across the back and armrest of the chair, book in the lap of her robe. The sleeves of her pajamas poked out from the edge of the robe sleeves, and her pajama pants splayed at the bottom. On top of the book, in the middle of the pages, Mom's wedding ring reflected against the sunlight.

Vicki slowly stepped forward, one foot crossing in front of the other, and her eyes remained fixated on the light glinting against the wedding ring. That was all she saw. Her hand shook as she knelt in front of her mother's clothes, but she still refused to move her eyes away from the wedding ring, and she lifted it with her index finger and thumb, holding it up to the light.

(She used to play with this ring, all the time, when her parents were having problems. She would slip it onto her ring finger and twirl around the tiny bathroom and imagine a knight in shining armor coming to save her. He would kiss her hand and declare his undying love for her, and he would ask her to marry him.

And she would tell him that marriage was destructive, a hurricane, and his eyes would sparkle as he would kiss her and tell her that marriage was a storm, but it was no hurricane. He would lean close and brush his lips against her hair and tell her that he would not hurt her, that he would respect her and believe her, that marriage was a fairy tale waiting to happen.

She used to believe in happy endings.)

Her fingers still shaking, Vicki took the wedding ring and slipped it onto her ring finger. It fit perfectly, and she wondered if Mom would have given it to her if she had ever approved of a man she brought home.

It felt wrong to take it off, but it felt just as wrong to keep it on. Slowly, Vicki slipped it off her finger and pressed the cool metal to her lips before tucking it into her pocket.

Slowly, Vicki stood and grabbed the remote. Her mom didn't typically watch the news, preferring to watch Lifetime movies. Once, Eddie asked why, and Mom said that the news was depressing, and it made it seem like there was no hope left in the world. But there was hope.

"Jesus is coming again," she would say with a smile, and Vicki wanted to barf.

(Hope, Vicki thought, was useless. What hope was there left to hold onto? The world was ending, the news was more depressing than ever, and happy endings didn't exist.

Jesus coming or not, happy endings weren't real.)

She pressed the power button, expecting to click through the channels until she found the news, but even though it was last on a Lifetime movie, reporters stood in front of rubble and car pileups, fires blazing in the distance.

"…airplanes cannot land, and pilots are now forced to use roadways or fields to land safely. For those just now tuning in, there have been mass disappearances across the entire globe. Authorities are still investigating the reason behind these disappearances."

Reports of disappearances. Shelly, pale as death. Zack, begging to die. Mom's clothes.

Maybe Shelly and Zack were right. Maybe they had the right idea.

She could fuck herself up right now. Her mom had sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet, and all Vicki would have to do was scramble over to the bathroom and dump the contents of the bottle into her mouth and swallow, and then everything was done, she was done with all of this.

_**Don't you dare.**_

She felt sick to her stomach and pressed a shaking hand to her stomach, where her skin still felt sensitive from the teapot.

All she knew was that her mom was gone and disappeared, and they had something in common with the Forsters, Fishers, and Grants. The only common connection was their faith in God, and if that was it – if this fucking _merciful_ God had taken them away from her – then her entire family would be gone, Eddie included.

But she had to know.

Vicki tossed the remote onto the coffee table, and in her haze, she pushed open the door to her parents' bedroom. Her mom's side was made up, but her dad's side was unmade, the covers were bunched, but even from the door, Vicki could tell that there was nobody there.

Instead of squeezing into the space between the wall and her dad's side of the bed, she crawled onto her mother's side and gently pulled back her father's sheets.

(When something good happened, she pinched herself to make sure it was real. When something bad happened, she numbed herself to make sure it wasn't.

This was one of those bad moments, but she knew that if she started the process of numbing herself, she would never stop, and she would lie in the middle of the trailer, dying, dying, and then she would be dead and there would be no one left to miss her, no one left alive to save her before then.

So she pinched herself.)

Her father's leather cross lay on his pillow. Vicki had only known him to take it off when he was in the shower, but he would wear it every other moment of the day. He would hold it whenever they were in the middle of a fight, and he would look at her with all the love in the world, and Vicki used to hate it, but all she wanted was to see him roll over onto his back and hold that necklace between his fingers and tell her that he loved her. He wouldn't have to say he forgave her, wouldn't have to say anything at all, really, as long as he was _here,_ as long as she wasn't left alone in this entire world.

She took it from the pillow and held it in her shaking fist, watching the cross swing back and forth, and she closed her eyes against the heartache. Her body felt like it was shattering from the inside out, starting with her heart. The pieces of her heart stabbed her lungs, descended into her gut, and she sobbed, crumpling onto her father's pajamas.

Her parents were gone.

(She didn't want to miss them, never thought she would, but she remembered how young she was, and the life in front of her was unforgiving.

All alone, a ward of the state, and no one to love her.

Unlovable, except she was loved by a love she could never know.)

_Jeannie._

According to Shelly, Jeannie would be gone, and she was probably right, but Vicki needed to know. She pushed herself off her parents' bed and barged into her own room, scrambling over her own bed to rip off Jeannie's covers.

Her little duckie pajamas lay flat against the mattress.

Vicki sunk to the floor, holding her fist to her mouth, pressing the cross against her lips, and through the blur of her tears, she just saw that her little sister – the very sister she had worked so hard to protect – was no longer there, was no longer around, might as well be dead for all Vicki really knew.

If it was God…

She grabbed the first thing she could and threw it at the window. The textbook shattered the glass. "_Fuck_ You, God!" she screamed, turning her face to the sky. "Did You hear that? I said fuck You! You're a fucking _dickhead,_ You took my family away! I want them back! I'm too young for this, and I–" she choked on her tears and coughed.

Instead of the cold whisper of grief, much like what Vicki imagined Zack heard, she felt the sunshine upon her face. She leaned into the embrace of an invisible person next to her, her father, and she turned her head as if to cry into his shoulder. "I want them back, I want them back, I didn't _mean_ any of this."

As her eyes were closed and as she cried with all the strength she had left, she felt a whisper speak into her heart. The fragments of her heart lifted from her stomach, unwedged themselves from her lungs, and they placed themselves back together.

_**This will hurt,**_ the whisper said to her, _**and it will take time.**_

Before she could object to even more pain, her heart began to stitch itself together.

And then she remembered Eddie.

She crawled away from the embrace, away from the sunlight, and towards her cellphone, where she had just enough sense of mind to plug it in last night, and she unplugged it and pressed Eddie's contact.

It kept ringing, and she kept thinking.

(In the past two years, she had seen everything: A man turning his life around. Love. Becoming better, a man crying, rehab, loving parents, movie nights. Bible studies, crosses, prayer, true love that transcended all understanding.

Her father, a changed man.

Her mother, a strong woman.

Her sister, a child who found hope.

Her brother, feeling like he could breathe for the first time in his life.

But she drank, smoked, did drugs, slept around, and she made everything worse to make things worse. Life would have been better if she had never woken up.

But the voice that whispered to her heart never let her believe that. Only her mind believed it at all.)

"Hey, it's Eddie! I don't know why you're calling instead of texting, it's not the 90s anymore, but, um, I'm not here. Leave a message, I won't check it."

"Dammit, Eddie," she gritted. Vicki didn't have time to try his cell again, so she scrolled again until she found the contact for his apartment. She leaned against her bed frame, phone pressed to her ear, and she looked to the sky again and said, "Please, please, please, let me have just this one."

"What's up?"

"Eddie?" Vicki shot up, reaching for the wall to steady herself. Maybe this wasn't the end of the world.

(It sure felt like it, though.)

The voice on the other end scoffed. "Nope, this is his roommate. It's Tristan."

Vicki collapsed onto her bed. "Oh." She licked her lips and swiped at her eyes. "Where– is Eddie there?"

"Who is this?"

"I'm Vicki. I'm Eddie's little sister. Is he there?"

"Uh…" Vicki could picture Tristan scratching his head or his eyebrow. "No. No, he's not here."

Her fingers twisted in her sheets. "Have– have you seen what's been going on?"

At this, Tristan laughed. "Jesus, kid, who hasn't?"

"Then you know what I want to know."

She could hear the sound of a fridge door closing. "How do you know that definitively? I could just say I simply don't know where he is."

"Don't give me that bullshit. I need to know where he is."

Tristan sighed. "Is your mom or dad around? I think it would be better –"

"They've disappeared." Her bottom lip, like her voice, trembled, but she took a deep breath. "And I'm guessing Eddie did, too."

There was a long enough pause that Vicki pulled the phone away from her ear to see if he was still on the line. Finally, he sighed again. "Yep. He disappeared. I didn't see it firsthand, but I got a call from the cops. They found his car smashed against a tree, and the car had been registered to Eddie. I went to go check it out, get ready to tell your family about it, but all that was there was a pile of his clothes. He's gone. I'm sorry."

Vicki took another shaky breath and draped her free arm over her eyes. "It's– I get it. It's just…"

Tristan set something down on a countertop. "You know, he bragged about you all the time. He really loved you, Vicki. He loved your other sister, too, but he had a different kind of connection with you. He would always tell me about you, about the fact that you were in high school and you were thinking about going to college someday. He'd– he really did love you, Vicki."

She wiped her eyes. "I know he did, Tristan. I know he did."

"He always felt so bad. Blamed himself for a lot of stuff."

(Pot. Alcohol. Sending her an allowance that encouraged her to self-destruct.

Eddie was self-destructing, and he was helping her the only way he knew how.

He blamed himself for messing up her life.)

"Well…" Tristan huffed. "Do you need anyone there to take care of you? I know you mentioned that you're by yourself…"

Last night, she would have jumped on that train, but she shook her head. "Thanks for the offer, but no thanks. I'll be just fine."

"Before you go, Vicki…" Tristan paused, trying to think of the words. "What do you think it was?"

She still held the cross necklace in her hand. "I don't know," she finally said, "but I think I have an idea."

Aside from the little kids who disappeared, there was only one thing that connected the families who had disappeared. She'd never heard of it, beyond a joke at school, but now it wasn't a joke and she needed to know. Vicki crawled back to the living room, back to her mom's favorite chair and grabbed her mother's Bible. Mom liked to write in the margins of things, of books, receipts, anything she could. She didn't take notes like her dad did, and right now, Vicki was hoping for that.

Her mom highlighted 1 Thessalonians 4:17 and wrote in the margins: _? Is this biblical proof of the Rapture?_

Vicki sobbed.

Tears streamed rapidly down her face, her skin was splotchy, and she leaned her head against her mom's clothes, Bible still in hand. She lifted it to look at the verse, to read it, understand what people thought before all this happened, but the sight of her mother's handwriting pushed her over the edge again, and she buried her face into the Bible and wept.

Really, she was glad that her family had disappeared. If it were this or the alternative, she wouldn't want them to be in the same pain she was in, but more than that gladness, more than anything, she wished they were here. She wished she could turn to her father and walk into the safest arms she knew; she wished that she could have heard Eddie telling her that everything was going to be okay, that she just needed to stop the life she was living; she wished she could tease Jeannie about her crush on the boy from church; and she wished that Mom were here to rub her back and braid her hair and tell her everything would be okay again.

Everything would be okay again, but she didn't want to go through life without the people she loved.

(And it was in this moment that she realized that she loved them. Despite the fighting, rebelling, screaming matches, despite the ignorance and smoking and drinking, despite all of this, she loved them.

She knew they loved her, too.)

And numbing herself would have been easier, she would have admitted that in a heartbeat, but it was the numbing of herself that cost her her family, and she was not willing to make that risk again. Withdrawals, so be it, she was not going back to the life she had lived, the life that turned her into a shell and emptied her every day.

She wanted to live, even if it would hurt. Especially if it would hurt, because there were still people in this world to see and meet and love, and she needed a little bit of love in her life, a little more than the warm embrace of the sunlight.

Today, her life had ended, but it also began again.

Vicki knew that Clarice was no longer on the planet anymore, raptured by God – whatever that meant – but surely, there was someone in her family who was still around. Chances were high, right?

Her family.

Clarice's home number would be in the school directory, in the yearbook. She could call and see.

Vicki knocked over the books on the end table, grabbed her yearbook, and flipped all the way back to _Washington._


	9. Lionel's Missed Opportunity

Lionel had this recurring dream, starting from the morning of April 28 that continued on until the day he died. He could almost say that he had the same dream before April 28, but it wasn't as rich, and the few times he had dreamed it before that morning, he had never had the full dream, only snippets. He used to only see flashes of bright light, a field with no one around, and grass swaying in the wind.

After Reece called his name and beckoned him to come closer, he found that he couldn't. His feet were firmly planted in the dirt. The golden light that shone on her was farther away, so that he didn't have it where he stood. When he tried to walk towards her, something shoved against him and knocked him down. He patted his chest, looked around, and when he looked up again, Reece was gone. Her voice, still calling his name, echoed in the wind.

Lionel twisted his lips and stood up. "Reece?" The light hadn't gone away, and since that was where he last saw her, he stepped towards it. The light remained constant with each step he took, and when he stood beneath the glow, he twirled around.

The grass swayed in the wind, gently brushing against his knees. Around him, for miles, there was nothing but waves of grass and wildflowers at the edge of a grove of trees. He glanced over his shoulder, at the place he had once stood, and he couldn't see it anymore. No patch of dirt. Nothing except the field and the light.

_**Sit and rest.**_

Lionel did as the voice asked, drawing his knees up to his chest. Music stirred in his soul, not enough to get him dancing to the music; his ears strained to hear it, to hear the rhythm that beat inside his chest, but there was nothing but the whisper of the grass.

He could feel trumpets, could feel the strings of a harp against his fingers. Closing his eyes, he laid down in the grass and turned his face to the light above him, hoping that it was enough to hear the music, the beautiful music that beat in his soul.

The light felt like an embrace. On the breath of the wind, he could catch Reece's voice, could hear Daddy's belly laugh. Behind his eyelids, he saw Mama leading Ronnie and Talia in a dance, jumping over sparks of light. There was nothing to be concerned about; it was not fire, it was brilliance, life, light. Mama shook her head and looked over to Daddy, whose hand trailed over her shoulder while she spun with the two younger kids. Clarice smiled and lifted her hands to her mouth, eyes still wrinkled in a smile.

Lionel sighed in contentment. He never wanted to leave this field.

_**Call on Me.**_

Lionel lifted his hand to the light, and he touched heaven.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, Lionel stretched and rolled onto his back, away from André, who continued to snore away. This morning, or this afternoon, he was going to find one of his family members – preferably Reece – and tell them about his secret, that he wasn't a Christian, but he wanted to change that right now.

But that would have to wait until after he dealt with the ringing landline.

He groaned and slipped out of bed, trudging up the basement steps in his bare feet. The air conditioning was cold upon his back, and he shivered, scrunching his shoulders against his ears as the chill raced up his spine.

Usually, he didn't walk around the house in only his boxers, but the phone was still ringing, and besides, he wanted a head start on breakfast this morning. His dad always threatened to eat all the eggs and bacon on Saturday mornings, and Lionel was dang tired of having to accept the offer of two slices of bacon and whatever eggs were left. He loved sleeping in as late as he physically could, don't get him wrong, but he also loved eating, and sometimes, he loved eating more than sleep.

Once he reached the landing of the first floor, he scratched his shoulder and shuffled towards the phone. It had stopped ringing briefly as he was halfway up the stairs, but after a few seconds, it resumed.

Lionel glanced at the key hanger and saw the keys to his mom's car still hanging. He frowned. _Odd,_ he thought.

Keys or no keys, the phone was about to stop ringing, so he picked it up and yawned into his fist. "Washington residence."

"Um…who's this?" The girl on the other side sounded out of breath.

Lionel pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it suspiciously. "Um, you're the one calling, I should be asking you that."

The girl sighed, and he thought he heard her breath catch. "I'm Vicki Byrne. I knew Clarice."

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, about to tell Vicki that Reece was just at work this morning, but then he heard her thick voice that sounded way too much like she had been crying. He grabbed a barstool and sat on it. "What's wrong? Is Reece okay?" His own voice shook, though it was stronger than he had ever expected it to be.

"It's– I'm not entirely sure, I just woke up, like, half an hour ago, and everything's just gone to _shit,_ and I really have no clue what's going on, and I'm not even sure she's there, but I figured someone she knew would know what's going on, and I just, I have no idea and I'm really– this is all really, really scary –"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Vicki, take a breath," he said, talking over her. "Now, what's wrong?"

"Uh…" Vicki sighed, and he drummed his fingers against the countertop. "You don't know?"

"Know what? What is there to know? Is Reece okay? Is she hurt?" Lionel grabbed the towel lying on the countertop and twisted it in his fingers.

"She's not…I don't know…"

"Just tell me!"

"Go check out the news!"

Lionel slammed his fist against the countertop. "I need to know! She's my big sister, and if something happened to her –"

"She's _gone,_ alright?! She's disappeared, just like billions of other people, just like every little kid!" Vicki choked on a sob. "People are _missing."_

The phone fell from his fingers and clattered against the floor.

(He still couldn't hear the music from that field, but he knew it was there. He could see everyone dancing to the beautiful music.

He couldn't hear it, but he knew it.

It was the trumpet call, and he hadn't heard a note of it.)

"Oh, God," he whispered, rooted to the barstool. Over the counter, he could see into the living room, and he could see the sleeve of his father's robe against the armrest of Daddy's favorite chair. "I missed it." His fingers started shaking. "I _missed_ it."

Slowly, he pushed himself out of the barstool and crept towards Daddy's favorite chair.

That robe would condemn him or save him. That robe would tell him if there was someone around to allow him to hear the trumpet call or if he missed it altogether.

He didn't need the robe; he was left behind, and so was André.

Lionel had figured that if he stayed on this path of self-destruction, of lying and ducking his head and remaining untreated for his anxiety and depression, he would wake up one day, and he would be in the same boat as André, they would both be staring down the same path.

He just didn't figure it would happen so soon.

His heart pounded in his throat as he came closer to that chair. Daddy's pajamas sat against the chair, almost like he was still in them, except they were missing the most important part, they were missing Daddy, who always slept in this chair with his head against the back, mouth open, drool dribbling down his chin. The pajamas were missing the man who would wake up with a crick in his neck, who would pout and plead with his wife for a few extra slices of bacon and fried potatoes because he was seriously injured, and he would try and kiss Mama, but she would just laugh and touch her finger to the tip of his nose.

Daddy wasn't in those pajamas, and that could only mean one thing.

His hands shook. They started shaking a few minutes ago, but they were shaking even more now, worse than they did before his finals, worse than they did before he met Dr. Swells. He held his breath, even though he knew that it wouldn't do anything, even though he knew that he and André were the only ones left in the entire Washington-Dupree family.

Lionel's chin trembled as he reached for Daddy's hearing aid, the hearing aid that matched his skin color so well that only his family knew that he was hard of hearing in his left ear. His lips trembled as he saw Daddy's wedding ring lying on the floor.

It did not deserve to be there.

He needed to scream, but when he opened his mouth, he could barely breathe, let alone scream. "Daddy?" he said hoarsely instead, touching his trembling fingers to his father's robe sleeves. No one was in there.

When Lionel lived in the ghetto, he had seen police officers force criminals to their knees with their batons. The criminals would go down almost immediately, gritting their teeth against the pain. He was always more scared for the officers than he was for himself when he saw this happen, because if the police officers were killed, it was down to Daddy to protect them, and Lionel had never seen Daddy hold his gun before.

(Dad wasn't here to wave his gun around anymore.)

So finding his father's pajamas, left without a person inside, forced Lionel to his knees as if a police officer had hit him with their baton. He fisted his fingers in the sleeves of his father's robe, and tears streamed down his face, hot and salty, and nothing in the world could stop them.

(He had seen heaven. He had heard Reece calling his name. Maybe there was enough time last night, as the trumpet blew, when he could have prayed and been caught up with them.

He had seen heaven, and he had kept sleeping. He had touched heaven, and he was still left behind.

Lionel Washington had his opportunity, and he had missed it.)

Mama was gone, Lionel knew, and so was Reece and Ronnie and Talia.

He pounded his fist against the armrest. "Dammit!" he screamed. "Dammit, dammit, dammit, _dammit!"_ Wheezing, Lionel lifted his face to the sky. "You couldn't have given me another day? You couldn't have told me, 'Hey, go talk to your sister or dad or mom before you go to sleep?' You couldn't have done that for me?" He hung his head in shame and gasped past his tears. "I'm sorry, God," he said, pressing his fingers into his eyes and wiping the tears away. "I didn't mean that. You don't owe me anything." He sniffled. "I- it just h-hurts, You know?"

Lionel grabbed Daddy's wedding ring from the ground and stood up painstakingly. Part of him wanted to get through this as quickly as possible, to confirm whatever fears he had, but another part of him – a much stronger part of him – didn't want to face what he knew was waiting for him.

He would have called Dr. Swells and scheduled an emergency appointment himself, but he knew for a fact Mama had chosen him because Dr. Swells was a Christian, and well…you can figure out the rest.

Lionel tried to wipe the tears away as fast as they came, but they rolled down his cheeks too quickly for him to keep up with them. When he opened the door to Ronnie's room, his vision blurred entirely, his heart squeezing in his chest. He pulled back the covers and found Ronnie's pajamas. No one inside.

His lips quivered, but Lionel quickly wiped his eyes and grabbed the arrowhead necklace he had given Ronnie for his birthday. It had been big on Ronnie – mostly because Lionel himself had wanted it, but Reece wasn't letting him buy something for himself – so Lionel put it on, fingering the cool rock resting against his sternum.

He still had Daddy's wedding ring, and since he didn't have pockets right now, he slipped Daddy's ring onto his thumb, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and slipped out of Ronnie's room.

Talia's room had more of the same. He grabbed her favorite scrunchie, put it on his wrist, and hurried out of her room before he lost it completely.

(He felt like he was falling apart. He felt like his world was ending, like it was spiraling out of control. But even in the chaos, even as he darted in and out of each bedroom, he heard a whisper in his heart, and in the middle of the hallway, Lionel stopped and buried his head in his hands.

"_God,"_ he prayed, "_I missed the first one hundred chances I had. But if it's not too late, let me be Yours. Save me now. Use me for Your purpose, and save me. Forgive me._

"_God,"_ he prayed, "_I missed my chance, but I want to take whatever You're offering now.")_

His soul stilled and when he lifted his head from his hands, the tears had dried. Lionel took a breath and pushed open Reece's door.

Reece had a habit of waking up in the middle of the night to read her Bible. Maybe it started when she was talking to a boy, and reading the Bible was the only thing that could calm her down while she waited. Or maybe it was the only thing that wouldn't get her yelled at by Mama and Daddy. Either way, she had adopted the habit of waking up after a restless night and pulling her Bible from her nightstand and turning to whichever book God led her to read.

On Reece's pillow, her Bible was still opened to Psalm 46.

And when his eyes fall upon the words that say, _Be still, and know that I am God,_ Lionel would have thought that he would have broken down, that he would have crumpled to the ground in a fit of tears, that he would make himself sick from crying.

Except it was in that moment that he felt God's hand upon his shoulder and God's voice whisper in his ear, and calm the storm in Lionel's mind. His mind and body stilled, and when he turned away from Reece's room, tears silently streaming down his face, Lionel lifted his chin and pushed open the door to Mama's room.

He could tell she had been praying. She probably prayed for him, probably knew that he wasn't a Christian. Or maybe she didn't know, and she prayed for him to get better with all the therapy. But whatever she was praying for, even if it was a prayer for Jesus to come soon, her pajamas fell against the bed like she had been kneeling, and her wedding ring glinted in the afternoon sun.

Lionel slipped Daddy's wedding ring off his thumb, took Mama's ring from the bed, and placed both of them next to each other on the nightstand.

Together, in life, in death, in heaven.

Lionel really wondered what heaven was like.

* * *

He was still crying when he headed back for the basement. Jeans now replaced his boxers, and his favorite shirt swathed his body. He still felt cold, so he grabbed a jacket, zipped it up halfway, and trudged back to the basement.

André, of course, knew nothing of what had happened, and as Lionel took care not to slip down the steps, he wondered if André really wanted to know.

Well, obviously not, no one wanted to know that their entire lives had just been decimated, but Lionel wondered if André would really care. If he would look around and notice that there was only one person left to take care of Lionel, if he would decide to square his shoulders, set his jaw, and step up. If André got his act together, Lionel would gladly go into his arms.

Lionel still had no idea how much money André owed Cornelius and LeRoy, but obviously, it was something that couldn't be remotely covered by a hundred dollars. And, knowing a little about the situation, Lionel figured it was best that André just get as much money as he could from Mama and Daddy's bank account and pay them off, and they could move into an apartment or something that hadn't been touched by fires. Heck, Lionel would even move back to the ghetto, as long as he wasn't alone, as long as he had someone he could call family.

But he knew, deep in his heart, that André wouldn't do it, or more accurately, that he couldn't do it. André didn't have the guts enough to marry his girlfriend of ten years, even though they'd lived together since before Lionel was born. André didn't have guts enough to break it off, instead sleeping around and laying low until he no longer worried about her killing him when he went back to face her.

André was a coward, and Lionel had never respected cowards.

At the base of the stairs, he closed his eyes and huffed a breath out past his lips. Nothing woke André except alcohol and weed and the smell of Mama's cooking. Lionel's screaming upstairs clearly hadn't done anything except make André roll onto his stomach and burrow into the pillow.

_Man, screw him._ Lionel shook his head and jumped over the back of the couch, sliding down to rip the covers off André's back.

André slept away.

Lionel grit his teeth. "What'll it take for you to wake up?" He slapped his knees, forced himself to get up, and turned on the faucet in the bathroom sink. Grabbing the cup Mama always left down here, Lionel filled it to the brim, shut off the faucet, and threw the cold water onto André's face.

André spluttered and kicked himself up. "What? What? I'll kill ya!"

Lionel tossed the cup aside and wiped his cheeks with the back of his sleeve. "It's just _me,_ Uncle André. We've gotta get up."

André mopped his face with his hand. "I don't smell Lucinda's cooking."

"Well, Mama ain't cooking today or tomorrow or next week. Get over it." He turned his face away from his uncle, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying, but despite his best efforts, a tear still slipped down his cheek.

André sighed and reached for Lionel's hand. "What's wrong, little man?"

Lionel yanked his hand away. "Stop calling me that! I ain't some _little man,_ I'm thirteen! Call me by my name!" He swiped at his tears with the edge of his sleeve. "And what's _wrong_ is that Mama and Daddy and Reece and Ronnie and Talia…they're all _gone,_ Uncle André. Every last one of them." He held up his hand before André could interject. "And before you say a damn thing, lemme tell ya something: I saw their clothes. They ain't kidnapped. The Rapture happened, the trumpet calling, whatever the hell you wanna call it."

André's mouth fell open and all color drained from his face as he looked up to the living room.

"All of them are gone and disappeared. I looked around, checked every room. They ain't here, Uncle André. It's just you and me."

Lionel wanted to blame his uncle for all of this, but it was André who told Lionel that he should try and be more like Mama, it was André who said he didn't want Lionel to turn out anything like him. It wasn't André's fault; André hadn't even known about it for twenty-four hours.

A lot can change in one day.

André shook his head. "Tell me it ain't so, kid. Tell me you're lyin'."

Lionel gestured to the entire house. "Would I lie to you about that?"

"You lied about your faith!"

Lionel jabbed his index finger in André's chest. "I _didn't_ lie about that! I never told anyone, but I'm telling you something right now! It's your time to step up."

"Fuck." André pushed himself off the air mattress and ran back up the steps. Lionel rolled his eyes and ran after him.

Once he found Daddy's clothes on the armchair, André's entire body shook. Lionel sat back on the barstool, stopping just long enough to pick up the phone from the ground. He set it on the counter.

André came down from the bedrooms as Lionel was halfway through humming "Amazing Grace." Without stopping to change into some clothes, André just grabbed Daddy's car keys.

"Hey!" Lionel stood abruptly. "Where are you goin' with that? I'm still here!"

André ran a shaking hand over the top of his head. "I can't take care of you, Lionel. Listen…look for someone to take care of you. There's probably someone still left from the church, or a school friend…"

Lionel sneered. "You coward."

André edged closer to the front door. "I've gotta go, Lionel."

Lionel sat back on the barstool, curling his fingers around the edge of the counter. "You don't gotta go, you gotta stay here and take care of me, but you know, I think I'm a hell of a lot better off without you."

André's face twisted in pain, but he slipped outside, the front door banging shut behind him.

Lionel stared at the front door, where sunlight peeked through the obscured glass. The light slanted almost perfectly, creating a round hole of warm light, and he sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He felt twenty years older, and he was all alone.

"Lionel?"

Lionel's head snapped up. "God?"

The girl on the other end of the line laughed, but he could still hear the tears in her laugh. "Nope, still Vicki. I, uh…haven't hung up yet."

Lionel laughed to himself and shook his head, putting the phone back to his ear. "So I guess you heard all that?"

Vicki made a sound in the back of her throat. "Not all of it. I heard you screaming, and I heard you fight with someone. But that's it. I wasn't trying to listen, I promise, I just…" Her voice squeaked. "I don't know what to do."

He drummed his fingers on the countertop. "You wanna meet at the church near my house?"


	10. Ryan Left Alone

Sirens. Burning homes. Fires, fires, fires. Smoke curling into the sky, black and thick. Fog. Choking. Coughing. Sirens and fire and smoke and coughing and fog. Destruction and pain and people crying. Little babies in their mom's arms, as she bounced them up and down. Sirens wailing. People wailing. Fire and smoke and plane crashes and crushed cars and people walking around in a haze, blood dripping from their foreheads.

Ryan woke up with a start.

His heart pounded fiercely in his chest, and as he curled his fingers into his sheets, he gasped. The air from his vent blew against his neck, and he shivered, pulling the covers over his head.

The sirens were over now, as far as he could tell. The only thing he could hear was the hum of the air conditioning and his blood rushing through his ears. He rolled onto his back, grabbed his phone from its hiding spot under his pillow, and headed downstairs for his breakfast.

There were exactly three occasions when Ryan was ever a morning person: 1) when he was staying at Raymie's house, 2) Christmas, and 3) when his mom came back home after picking Dad up from the airport.

So when he yawned into his fist and checked his phone for any messages – nothing new, except a text from Dad saying how excited he was to see Ryan and hang out with him – and saw that it was half past noon, he wasn't particularly concerned about his lifestyle choices. He would have brunch instead of breakfast, and everything would be fine.

Ryan opened the refrigerator door to grab his grape juice, and as the door swung shut, he caught sight of the sticky note plastered to the door.

**Ryan,**

**I left to go pick up your father. I'll be home soon.**

**Love you,**

**Mom**

He smiled softly and tossed the note onto the counter. Grabbing his favorite cereal and a bowl, he slid into his normal spot at the table.

_Wait. _He yawned again and looked around. It was half past noon, and Ryan had known for the past several days that Dad's plane was coming in no later than ten. Unless there was a major delay or a cancellation, his dad should be back. And Mom, too.

He frowned and quickly unlocked his phone, pushing aside his cereal.

Amber alerts. News notifications. Safari only loading the most recent articles. Sports referred to smaller teams. Global news reported catastrophes. Reporters questioned biowarfare.

Ryan furrowed his brow. "What the…?" He clicked on an article from _The Washington Post, _and even though it was hard for him to understand what they were saying, this soon after he had woken up, and with the panic that was clear even through the screen, he could tell it was something bad.

He didn't really want breakfast anymore.

As he swiped out of the Safari app, and just as he was about to turn off his phone, he saw a notification on his phone. The only people who ever bothered to call him were his parents or solicitors, so he pressed the button and went to his voicemail.

"_Ryan, I'm stuck in some crazy traffic here, and I don't know if I can get to O'Hare or back home. There must have been an accident up ahead or something. I'll just keep trying, and I'll be back with your father soon enough. There's cereal in the pantry and some leftover spaghetti, if you want it. I love you."_

Though this wasn't the first time Ryan had ever gotten a message like this from his mom, it was the first time she sounded worried. Maybe he had picked it up from being around her and watching the news with her and hearing about the mounting concerns of World War III. Or maybe he picked it up when Mrs. Steele would come over with Raymie and Ryan would stand at the edge of the kitchen, where they couldn't see him, and Mom would mention that she was scared she and Dad would get a divorce.

The point was, Ryan did not know how he had picked up her "I'm worried, but I don't want anyone else to know" tone, but he picked it up nonetheless.

And when he checked the time stamp on the voicemail, his frown deepened, and he pushed himself out of his chair.

That message came in five hours ago, and she should have been home by now.

He opened the garage door and poked his head around. Only his dad's car was left, and that was because Mom had driven him to the airport in the first place.

As he stood by the garage door, chewing his lip, Ryan figured that the news would be the only thing that could tell him, really, what was going on. Something held Mom up even while she was driving to the airport, to the point where she wondered if she could even get back home. An earthquake? The possibility made some sense to him, though he wondered how isolated earthquakes could be, if the airport was just about twenty minutes away and he still hadn't felt it.

"The sirens," he murmured to himself, and he pivoted so quickly that his foot slipped out from under him and he crashed to the floor, knee connecting with the hard wood. He pushed himself up, grimacing against the pain, and threw himself over the couch to grab the remote.

He thought it would take him forever to find the right channel, seeing as how he never watched the news by choice, but when he turned it on, he didn't have to turn the channel.

(Later, he would find out that,

In a crisis,

The world will stop, and the truth will face you.

Fiction was an escape, not

A means to an end.

The truth hurt,

But he needed to face the music.)

A news anchor stood in front of the camera, helicopters floating in the air behind her. Several cars were piled up on the road, crushed and totaled in their entirety. White sheets that covered dead bodies littered the ground as EMTs dug through the rubble, placed a new corpse on a gurney or slab of wood, and carried it to the field behind the lady. One EMT knelt by a golden retriever, whose leg was all crushed and bloody. Ryan had never seen a dog so bloody. The anchor moved to stand in front of the view of the dog getting its leg amputated.

"Today, many woke up to find destruction on a scale that the world has never before seen. As you can see from our bird's-eye view, many planes have crashed. The car wreckage was caused by drivers disappearing right out from their clothes, and we can only assume the same happened with these planes. As of yet, there is no way to definitively know the extent of the destruction, but we can say it is monumental."

Ryan's heart leapt into his throat. _Plane crashes. Dad– Mr. Steele–_

Dad promised him that they would go camping together soon. Mr. Steele promised to teach Ryan how to chop wood.

But the anchor said that people disappeared, right out of their clothes. That…wasn't possible. It shouldn't be possible. Like, Ryan had always entertained the idea of aliens, if only so that he could fight one and become a Jedi, but now that it could be possible? It seemed too far-fetched, too unrealistic.

"Raymie's gotta know what's been happening." He fished his phone out of his pocket and pressed Raymie's contact. Knowing his best friend, Raymie wouldn't answer a text just yet, not when this was going on and would need a lengthy explanation.

The phone rang and kept ringing.

Ryan shook his head, ended the call when he got to Raymie's voicemail, and pressed his mom's contact. Still nothing.

He tried Raymie again, and every time he did, he got the same voicemail, where Raymie attempted his best Darth Vader impression while Ryan cracked up in the background. The voicemail cut out when Mr. Steele stepped inside Raymie's room, saying, "What is going on in here?" just as Raymie yelped and hurriedly said into the receiver, "Anyways, please leave a message, please and thank you."

Raymie hated hearing his phone buzz, and even if he loved the ringtone he had set for Ryan that week, he would have picked up by now, if for no other reason than that Chloe and his parents would have gotten onto him for letting it ring when he was perfectly capable of picking it up himself.

Ryan shrugged and tried his mom again, but she didn't pick up. Maybe her phone died. The charger in the car wasn't all that reliable in the first place. He couldn't really blame her, if he were being honest.

The news droned on, and the reporters kept mentioning the disappearances, how people had disappeared right out of their clothes. They showed video clips, too, of proud parents recording their children at basketball games on the other side of the country, only for the camera to immediately fall to the ground while screams filled the background.

"…there are no definitive answers, of course, since there is no way to tell who disappeared and who was killed in some of these instances, but experts estimate that about half of the world has disappeared."

Ryan dropped his phone.

_About half._

A chill raced up his spine, and he leaned over the back of the couch to fish his phone out from between the cushions to type in **world population** into the Google search bar. When Google glitched, as a result of these new numbers, he grumbled, backspaced, and typed **world population 2019.**

There were 7.53 billion people in the world as of 2019, and the number had only grown since then.

He frowned. Unless there were more deaths in the past couple of years than there were births, that is. Then maybe the number shrunk, but either way, it was a big number, and when he calculated how much half would be, his jaw dropped.

"There are staggering reports of suicide. Police and other investigators are unable to help with people in danger of committing suicide, so we have been asked to tell you all, in the midst of this emergency, to wait until we have answers. Your loved ones may return. The cause of these disappearances is still unknown at this time."

The television cut out, and Ryan's head snapped up. He tucked his phone in his pocket.

"The cause of these disappearances is still unknown at this time."

The anchor lady's face contorted and twisted to the side, red and blue bars splitting her head in two. The television blared, and before an emergency alert system could come on, her voice floated throughout the living room.

"The cause of these disappearances is still unknown at this time."

When the television went back to normal, the anchor lady was no longer there, but there was a lot more blood than there had been a minute before. A man stood up and pocketed her necklace, lifting his gun.

The screen went black.

* * *

After witnessing what he was pretty sure was a murder on national – or international – television, Ryan bolted out of his house, running for Raymie's. Someone had to be there, someone had to be able to tell him what had just happened.

It wasn't aliens. Aliens couldn't have done this, and besides, maybe Raymie was right, maybe aliens didn't exist. Except right now, the only thing that made sense to him was aliens, and he felt like he was missing some very important information that would hand him all the answers.

Ryan pounded on the front door to the Steele's house, clamping his mouth shut. A few men with bandanas tied around their faces lifted baseball bats to the windows, and when the glass shattered, they crawled in. He heard people screaming, and then it would get silent, and he would pound even harder on the front door with one hand while frantically pressing the doorbell with the other.

"Hello?" he screamed, his voice scratching against his throat. He pulled his fist away from the door, and it shook. Whether it was from the fear or the force of pounding it against a wooden door, he didn't have a clue. Closing his eyes, he took a quick breath and continued to pound on the door. "Hey, I know you can hear me, let me in! Chloe?! Mrs. Steele?!"

No one answered.

Ryan checked over his shoulder, and there were still people looting the neighbors' houses, and they crept closer to his house. He didn't want them to take anything, especially if Mom was coming back soon, but he didn't want to be in there all alone when something happened.

The Steeles had a key in their backyard, hidden underneath a potted plant. Ryan had been told to use it only in extreme emergencies, like the type of emergency where he was more in danger if he called the police right then. And, based on what Ryan had heard about today, calling the police was going to result in a day-long wait at best.

Ryan glanced over his shoulder and slipped towards the backyard. The looters had gone inside, so he grabbed the top of the fence and pulled himself up. He dropped to the ground and rolled in the grass.

The Steeles used to have a dog. Her name was Daisy, and she was a border collie. Ryan and Raymie would take turns taking care of her and playing with her. Sometimes she would accidentally bowl Ryan over, and when he first met Daisy, it would make him cry, but as he got older, he and Raymie made it a game to see who got bowled over by Daisy the most.

Daisy had died about two years ago, and Mr. Steele still hadn't taken down her kennel outside. Her toys still littered the grass.

Ryan bit his top lip and hurried towards the back door, his head ducked low in case the looters came around to the Steele household. He grabbed the potted plant from its spot on the patio table, grabbed the key taped to the bottom, and unlocked the back door.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him, pocketing the key. Ryan knew that Mr. Steele had imposed some "in case of emergency" plans, but he didn't know what the plan would be for "everyone is trashing the neighborhood, half the world is gone randomly, and a ton of people are dying, not to mention the fact that emergency services are so overwhelmed that police can't do their job, fires are burning down entire neighborhoods, and hospitals are so full that people are dying on the streets."

Ryan didn't go to all of the Emergency Rehearsals, but he heard about them from Raymie. Usually.

He figured that there would be some relation between this current situation and a deadly shooter situation, or this and a tornado. If he had to bet, they were hiding in one of the bathrooms – probably Mr. and Mrs. Steeles' – and they would be mad at him for a little bit until he told them that his mom still wasn't home, last time he checked.

He crept up the stairs, wincing when he put his weight on the creaky step. It groaned beneath his foot and he grit his teeth, braced his hand against the wall, and lifted himself to the step after that. The step groaned again when his foot left it.

Ryan had originally planned to go straight to Raymie's room and check and see if he was just avoiding him or if he got in trouble, but before he could push Raymie's door open, he heard someone crying.

It didn't sound like Raymie or Mrs. Steele.

Ryan turned from Raymie's room and gently stepped closer to the sound of crying, stopping just outside Mr. and Mrs. Steeles' room. He licked his lips and lifted his hand, still shaking, and gently knocked on the door frame.

"Raymie?" Mr. Steele's voice was thick, filled with tears.

Ryan poked his head inside the room. "Um…no, it's– it's not." He glanced around the room, noticing shards of glass on the floor and how Mrs. Steele's Bible laid face down on the floor amid the shards of glass. The sheets were unmade. Mr. Steele's eyes were red and puffy. "Are you okay, Mr. Steele?"

Mr. Steele choked on a sob and gestured for Ryan to come in. Ryan stepped inside the room and sat across from him.

"Um, Ryan…" Mr. Steele rubbed his palms on his slacks. "Uh, Raymie's disappeared. So did Ir– so did Mrs. Steele."

Ryan furrowed his brow. "What?" He shook his head and rocked onto his heels. "N- no. That can't be. R- Raymie's fine. I was just talking to him last night. Like, late last night. He's gotta be fine."

Mr. Steele cleared his throat and squeezed Ryan's shoulder. "I checked, Ryan. He's gone. He's– His phone was dead when I got here. I think it happened right after he was talking to you." Tears fell down his face, and he reached with his free hand to swipe at them. "I really wish I didn't have to be the one to tell you this, son."

Ryan's face twisted in pain, and he felt like a little kid again as he reached for Mr. Steele. Mr. Steele leaned forward and wrapped Ryan in a hug, and Ryan buried his face into Mr. Steele's shoulder and he cried.

He felt like a little kid because he was a little kid. He was twelve years old, and he would crawl into his parents' bed at night whenever there was a thunderstorm or whenever he had a nightmare, and he couldn't watch a lot of PG-13 movies because some of them had too much cursing or sex or violence or they scared him too much, and he liked mac-'n-cheese and he couldn't usually be left alone at home. He was still short, and he would ride his bike around the neighborhood every day, and sometimes, he would ride around Mount Prospect with Raymie and Chloe, and he would get scared when he went to Chicago and he would lose his mom in the crowd, and he would shout her name until she shoved her way through the throngs of people and grabbed his hand.

But through his entire life, all twelve years, he had known Raymie. They shared the same birthday, were born mere hours apart from each other, in the same hospital, and from the day Mr. Steele met Dad, they were friends. Raymie had been there through everything. Raymie was closer than a brother to him, and Raymie always told Ryan that he was closer to him than his own sister.

Raymie was gone now, and Ryan was left alone.

Ryan bunched his fingers in Mr. Steele's jacket. "Why didn't I disappear?" he choked out. "I– we're the same age, we do everything together, why didn't I disappear too? Why did he go?"

Mr. Steele cupped the back of Ryan's head. "I don't know for sure, Ryan. I don't know for sure."

* * *

Ryan followed Mr. Steele back downstairs. He felt tired now, like he didn't have a whole lot of tears left to cry – though a select few situations could change that – and he didn't know if Mom was home yet. Mr. Steele offered to get Ryan a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while he called his mom.

"I thought you were supposed to be in England tonight, Mr. Steele." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

Mr. Steele's steps faltered. "I was," he said. "But the disappearances happened before we reached the halfway point, and I felt that it would be better to turn back. People were focused on getting back to their families." He cleared his throat. "_I_ was focused on getting back to my family."

Ryan pulled up a barstool and sat at the counter while Mr. Steele set the bread, peanut butter, and grape jelly on the counter. "Where's Chloe?"

Mr. Steele grabbed a butterknife from the drawer. "Don't know. She– she was supposed to be going back to California for school. Just swooped in to say hi for a few days and go back. I don't know if she's okay, and I can't get ahold of her."

Ryan twisted his lips and accepted the sandwich Mr. Steele offered him.

As he ate, Mr. Steele glanced at the living room. "You said your mom wasn't home when you were there?"

Ryan nodded.

Mr. Steele drummed his fingers against the counter. "I don't want you going back there alone. I don't think I want you going back there at all unless your parents are home. You can stay here for now, but I hope you don't mind if I turn on the news."

Ryan gestured to the living room and hopped off the stool.

When Mr. Steele turned on the tv, there was a new reporter standing in front of the screen, and at a different place, too. This reporter was young, could almost pass as a college student, with unruly hair and rumpled clothes. His eyes, however, were wide awake.

The reporter folded his hands and leaned forward, staring directly into the camera. "We are about to play a list of people who were in planes that currently have unknown whereabouts. Again, we would like to warn our viewers that, just because your loved ones may be on this list, there is no cause to worry. There is no evidence to suggest that these disappearances are permanent.

"Under normal circumstances, we would not be allowed to do this, but considering the havoc that has wreaked the planet, we have been given permission to release flight lists. It comes as the following: the flight name will be listed first, along with its place of departure, location of arrival, and finally, the people onboard. Be advised that these were the people who bought tickets; there is no way to know if they boarded the planes or not."

Ryan leaned forward, barely registering Mr. Steele's hand on his back. He bit his thumbnail and scanned each flight list, groaning internally at how slowly they played the passenger lists. He understood, though. There were a lot of people, and he was even having trouble placing his father's place of departure with the location of arrival.

Mr. Steele leaned forward. "Your mom told Irene that your father's flight was 7893 from Madrid."

Ryan nodded.

**Flight 7893 from Madrid-Barajas Airport to O'Hare International Airport**

He gasped and reached for Mr. Steele's hand. Ryan hoped and prayed that his father wouldn't be on this list, that he had canceled his flight or gotten on another one, that he wasn't there, but _**Todd Daley**_ flashed on the screen, and Ryan choked on a sob.

His father was dead.

Mr. Steele sighed sadly and pulled him into a hug, and Ryan shrank into himself, crying openly and harder than he had before. He lost Raymie and his dad, all in one day – how could it get any worse?

"He can't be dead." He swallowed past the pain, past the fear, and turned his face into Mr. Steele's shoulder. "He can't be dead. I won't let him."

"Maybe he disappeared," Mr. Steele whispered, gently rubbing Ryan's arm. "Disappearing would be better, don't you think?"

Ryan shook his head. "He didn't disappear. I just– I just _know,_ Mr. Steele, I know that my dad is dead." He reached up and rubbed his eyes with his fist. "I just wanna go home."

Mr. Steele nodded. "Okay. Okay, son, we can arrange that."

They waited until Ryan was calm enough to say a coherent sentence without crumbling into tears, then Ryan took his phone from his pocket, his hands shaking the whole time, while Mr. Steele continued to sit beside him.

He secretly hoped his mom never picked up. That he wouldn't have to be the one to tell her that Dad was dead, or that he wouldn't have to hear her try and tell him herself. He secretly hoped that today was just a terrible, awful nightmare, and he would wake up and crawl into his mom's bed, and he would tell her that he just had the worst nightmare of his life, that Dad had died in a plane crash and Raymie was just gone, and she would smooth his hair back and tell him that he had nothing to worry about.

But the phone stopped ringing.

"Who is this?"

Ryan furrowed his brow and pulled the phone away from his ear. "Um…I– I called my mom's phone. Who are you? Did you steal it?"

"Is your mom Marjorie Louise Daley?"

Ryan nodded, though he knew the person on the other end of the line couldn't see him. "Yes, that's her, but can you answer my question? Who are you?"

The person on the other end sighed. "I'm Officer Flanigan. Um…is there anyone with you? A relative, maybe? Where's your father?"

Ryan clenched his jaw. "My dad is dead, and we don't have any relatives in the city."

Officer Flanigan sighed. "Son, um…what's your name?"

Ryan grit his teeth and gripped the phone tighter in his hand. "My name is _Ryan,_ now can you tell me why you're the one answering my mom's phone?"

"Ryan, your mother is dead."

(He had hoped that she wouldn't answer, but he had never dreamed of this. He had never dreamed that she would be dead.

He wanted this to be a dream, something he could wake up from.

But he could feel the pain; it wasn't a dream.)

"No! She can't be dead!" He stood quickly, Mr. Steele reaching for him. The officer on the other end of the line tried to say something more, that she was killed in a car crash, but Ryan bowled over him. "I won't let her be dead! I won't– she's not– my mom isn't dead!"

Mr. Steele stood and gripped Ryan's shoulder. "Ryan, I think it's best that you–"

Ryan shrugged off Mr. Steele's hand and hung up the phone. "Don't even talk to me," he seethed.

Mr. Steele furrowed his brow and followed Ryan to the front door. "Ry- Ryan, come back in here!"

But Ryan didn't listen. He ran down the street, grabbed his bike from his front yard, and sped out of the neighborhood. Mr. Steele ran out the front door and called his name, keys in hand, but Ryan knew shortcuts, knew how to avoid being seen by Mr. Steele or his parents.

Tears blurred his vision, and as the wind blew past him, he choked on another sob. _I want my parents,_ he thought.


	11. Finding Each Other

**A/N: We're finally on the last chapter! As some of you may have noticed, I included Mark a little early and I don't regret that. I plan on getting the second book up relatively soon, but it's really hard managing all my classes as well as rewriting books (but the main reason is an ex-friend gave me trauma concerning this series because she was really rude and toxic and God definitely got her out of my life for a reason, but it's difficult to get to the point of being able to forgive her). Anyways, I'm much better now but my professors decided to do everything on MWF instead of Tuesday and Thursday, so yeah, it's hard. I'm slowly learning time management. It's a process. Expect the second book by November or so, and I'll be working on the next few books as well. Also, you guys are going to be getting the series much sooner than AO3 is.**

* * *

He still had the key to his house.

Judd didn't know what he had planned to do with it, or if he simply hadn't taken the time to remove the key from his lanyard, but a part of him knew that he was still a part of his family, whether his parents were going to send him to prison or not. That key connected him to them. He had tried to press it into his father's hand after the accident, and his father merely closed Judd's fingers over the key and told him to keep it.

That key was as much a reminder as the red chip in his pocket.

His heart raced as he got out of the taxi and as he pulled his keys from his pocket. As bad as the roads had been on the way from the airport, as much destruction as he had seen, all the fires and smoldering houses and smoke still rising into the air, he hadn't expected to find home like it was. Nothing had changed; at least, not on the outside. Mr. Carter was still standing outside in his pajamas and watering his flowers.

"Is everything okay in there, Judd?" Mr. Carter lifted one hand in a wave. "There was a flurry over at your place last night."

Judd smiled tightly and waved back. His hands shook as he found the house key. "Don't know yet," he called back, but when he turned his face away from Mr. Carter and took a steadying breath to still his hands, he knew.

He felt very young, very stupid, and very afraid.

Judd shoved the key into the lock, pressed his shoulder against the door, and pushed it open. He thought he could get away with this, thought he could fly all the way to goddamn _England_ and be fine. He thought he was the type of guy that girls would look at and swoon over, and here he was, he was sixteen years old and he was an orphan.

There was not any proof for that; at least, not yet, not as long as he stood on this side of the door, as long as he didn't step foot into his house. Outside, he was safe, and he didn't have to worry.

But at one time or another, reality sets in and you have no choice but to face the music.

So Judd took a deep breath, stepped inside, and slid down the door as it closed behind him.

_I want Mom and Dad,_ he thought, and he pressed his fist to his forehead and wept openly, in the great expanse of the foyer. No one heard him.

And maybe he pounded his fist against the ground, maybe he twisted his fingers into his hair and tugged, maybe it felt like it _hurt_ so much that it would never stop, that he could never breathe again, and he couldn't stop.

His heart tore into pieces – four pieces, to be specific – and twisted in his gut. The picture of Piper and Philip, anxiously waiting for him to get home so they could keep watching Scooby Doo, stabbed him in the lungs, and he kept whispering to himself that it was his fault, his fault, it was all his fault, he broke their hearts and he didn't even get the chance to say goodbye.

He slid even further until he was lying on his side, and he tried to curl further into himself, to protect himself from the pain, to stop the sobs that racked his body.

Nothing helped.

No matter what he had thought about his parents, no matter what he had thought about his family, they loved him, and they would always love him, and he had so much _difficulty_ believing that because Judd never really remembered ever loving himself.

There were always the kids at school and at church, and they loved Jesus, hell, they were the _poster_ children for VBS and Sunday school and Christian universities, and he felt like he was nothing compared to them, even though he knew the same verses and spouted them off as quickly as he could, and he didn't know, there was just something wrong with him, and it started when he was ten and it kept on going until he was sixteen, and he was sixteen now, and he _still_ hated himself.

Judd ran out of tears to cry.

He stayed on his side, letting his breathing slow down, each breath shuddering as it blew past his lips. He reached up with one hand and wiped his nose, keeping his eyes trained on the tile three inches from his eyes.

His eyes blurred, and he winced, rolling onto his back. His head split in two, cracking straight down the middle, and his heart sped up when he thought about the pain. He curled his hands into his fists and tried to breathe past the pain, but nothing helped.

(Well. Only one thing helped, but if he got up and took his medicine, he would keep shoveling those pills into his mouth until he ran out and he would be dead, dead, dead, and he would never get to see his family again.

So he didn't take his medicine.)

Judd slowly pushed himself up, squeezing his eyes shut against the sunlight and movement. Carefully, he braced one hand against the wall and stood, breathing for another moment before he took a shaky step towards the staircase.

He didn't look at the family pictures on the way up the stairs. He couldn't; he was the only one who was left, and the sight of him holding Piper on his shoulders or him carrying Philip on his back would have crushed him again. As it stood, he didn't think he would be able to look into their rooms.

Piper's room was the first one on the second floor. To the right, white door with little pink hearts cut out and taped to the front. In the middle of the door, she had taped a picture of her and Philip and Judd, painted by her, and as Judd stood in front of her door, he lifted his index finger and gently lifted the bottom of the paper.

She was an artist. Piper really could draw, almost as if it was as easy for her as living was. When her homework was finished for the evening – and she always got it done, she always had it finished early, long before bedtime – she would pull out her pencils and the pencil sharpener and the sketchbook Judd had bought her for Christmas and she would ask Judd to give her something to draw, and sometimes he would say the sky or a dog or Philip in a crisis or him graduating, and she would always wrinkle her nose and stick out the tip of her tongue as she started drawing.

Her pictures always looked like photographs, snapshots of something that had yet to happen. Once, Mom had given her the picture of her and Philip attacking him while he was reading in the backyard, and that was the very picture Piper had decided was perfect enough for everyone to see.

Judd swiped at his eyes, clenched his jaw, and carefully opened her door.

Like her room always was, nothing was out of place. Her books were stacked neatly on her desk and in her bookshelves, her sketchbook on the left side of her desk. Her Bible sat on her nightstand, bookmarked where Judd could only guess was somewhere in the New Testament. Her room was perfect, pristine. Perfect, pristine little Piper.

When she was five years old, she had decided that she was going to learn how to read. She had bounded up to Judd and snuggled in next to him on the couch, and she had presented him with the biggest book she had been able to find, which, coincidentally, was more difficult a story than he'd ever read before. Even their mom had smiled gently, taken the book from Pipe's hands, and replaced it with a much smaller book, and Judd taught her to read.

And whenever Pipe would have a hard day, whether that meant getting in a fight with Philip or a different friend at school, or getting punished, she would grab the first book she had ever learned to read and she would seek out Judd, and he would smile softly and let her read to him while she sat on his lap.

She read that book to him when he was trying to get through his withdrawals.

Piper was supposed to go on and do great things in the world. Become president or the secretary of state, find the cure for cancer, eradicate the common cold. Maybe she would have been a female Billy Graham, maybe she would have been an ambassador to a foreign country. Maybe she would have been a doctor, a nurse, a businesswoman to lead the company into vast amounts of unfathomable success.

She was supposed to be his hero, and she was gone.

(That didn't make her any less his hero.)

He pressed his lips together and wiped his palms on his jeans before taking a shaky step forward. Nothing had changed in her room, nothing would be different except maybe her diary, and Judd didn't want to touch that yet, he felt like she would still notice him reading her diary and she would put her hands on her hips and ask, "Judd Michael Thompson Jr., _what_ are you doing reading my diary?" And he would smile and laugh and toss it onto her bed and sweep her into a hug and apologize until he ran out of breath.

But that wouldn't happen. Her diary was ready for him to read, when he was ready himself.

Judd slipped between the window and her bed, biting down hard on his lip when he saw the barrettes still on her pillow. She always complained about her hair hurting whenever she would wake up, and they always told her it was the barrettes, but she never changed.

He pulled back the covers.

Of course, her pajamas were there. Her right sleeve was draped over her stuffed bunny, and he sucked in a breath and tried to blink back the tears.

(She stopped sleeping with her stuffed bunny when she was seven years old, but occasionally, when she had nightmares or when she was upset, she would pull it out and sleep with it cradled to her chest.

Piper had pulled out her stuffed bunny because of him. He really did ruin everything, didn't he?)

He pretended not to notice the dried tear stains on her pillow, and he left her room mostly as he found it.

Judd didn't expect much different from Philip's room. Philip was less organized than Piper was (in other words: he was not organized at all), but there was one similarity between the both of them, and that was the lack of his two favorite siblings on the entire face of this planet.

Just as Judd was about to leave Philip's room and investigate the rest of his house, he found a note lying on top of Philip's Bible.

He looked around and pulled the corner of the paper to read it better.

_**PRAY THAT JUDD COMES HOME.**_

Judd quickly swiped at his eyes. "Guess your prayer was answered a little late there, Phil." He sniffed and backed away from Philip's bed. "But I'm back. I'm really, truly back."

He was back.

* * *

Lionel never watched the news. Which was ironic, he realized, considering his mom was a reporter for one of the biggest magazines in the world. But he liked reading the news, liked the cold hard facts of it all, and Mama always had a way of making the world seem a little bit less scary. She got rid of his anxiety.

As he waited for Vicki, Lionel turned on the television. A part of him knew that he couldn't escape the news, that no matter what channel he turned to, there would be a reporter on the screen, telling the world what everyone had discovered already, and he would have to realize that a lot of people had committed suicide or died in car accidents or plane crashes and that, coupled with the disappearances, was too much for him to bear.

It was just white noise, anyways.

The doorbell rang, and he stood slowly and the path that used to seem so short seemed like it was five miles long now, and when he opened the door, Vicki stood on the other side.

She was smaller than he had expected.

Vicki twisted her hands together and tugged on the bottom of her shirt. No matter how much she tugged, her shirt didn't cover her belly button, and she sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears. "Hi," she said. She didn't look at him. "I'm, uh, I'm Vicki."

He nodded and stepped aside. "Lionel. Reece's brother."

She took a tentative step inside, and he closed the door behind her. "I thought– I mean, your sister would always tell me that your mom never liked nicknames."

Lionel chuckled once and gestured towards the living room. He had cleaned up while he waited for Vicki to walk all the way from the trailer park, and though touching his father's clothes had creeped him out, it was nice to pretend, even for a moment, that things were okay again. "Yeah, Mama hated nicknames, but I almost never called Reece by her given name. Just so long as I didn't call her 'Claire.' She always said it sounded incomplete to her."

Vicki smiled tightly. "I'm, uh, sorry that– that I didn't change or anything, it's just that…well, I wanted to get here as quickly as possible." She waved her hand in the air and ran her fingers through her hair. "The trailer park was going crazy. Don't blame them. All of the little kids are gone, but I- I just couldn't be there any longer, y'know?"

Lionel nodded again and collapsed onto his favorite spot. "You got any family left, Vicki?"

She shook her head and crossed her arms over her chest. She still hadn't really looked at him. "No. At least, I don't think so. I used to have an uncle, but a) I don't know what happened to him, and b) I don't even know if he was still alive at the time of the disappearances. My family hasn't talked about him for a while."

He bit his bottom lip. "You haven't looked at me yet. Is it because I'm black?"

At this, Vicki looked up sharply. "What? No, that's– that's not it, Lionel, I– it's just that–" She took another shaky breath. "You look exactly like your sister. I didn't expect that."

He blinked. "Oh." Lionel scrubbed his nose with the heel of his hand. "Uh…sorry? I guess?"

She shook her head. "It's…it's not your fault. Obviously, you can't control it. It's just that…" She huffed out a breath past her lips. "Clarice was the only person who ever…treated me like a friend. Like a person. Someone who was worthy of respect."

Lionel smiled softly. "Yeah, that was my big sister. I almost became a Christian because of her. She had a way of letting people know they were loved."

Vicki pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on top of them. "Yeah. Yeah, she did. I guess…it's weird to say, and weird to tell you, but I felt more loved by her than I ever did by anyone in my family."

He wanted to ask her more about that, wanted to ask about the scars on her stomach and the cigarette burn on the inside of her elbow, but he felt like it would be prying. "I, uh, called the church nearby. There was a secretary there who got me in touch with a pastor. He said he could see us as soon as he got to the church. Told me he'd call when he got there."

Vicki dropped her feet to the ground and leaned forward, pressing her fists into the couch cushions. "A pastor? You mean like a Christian pastor?"

Lionel shook his head. "I thought the same thing, but he said he didn't…he said it was complicated, I guess. Maybe he'll tell us more about it."

Vicki's face fell. "Oh."

He lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. "It could be worse, I guess. Things could always be worse."

She tilted her head, and her hair fell to cover part of her face. "How could things be any worse, Lionel?"

"Easy," he said, turning the tv off. "Our families could be dead."

He never once told her about Uncle André.

* * *

Judd shoved his door open and before he could get three steps into his room, he stopped cold.

His entire room was trashed.

All of his clothes lay strewn about his floor, his desk drawers hung precariously, papers scattered his desk and blew when the air conditioning breathed upon them, and the boxes beneath his bed decided to bare their face.

Judd stepped closer to his desk, mostly because that was the easiest thing for him to deal with, the part of his room that he knew was typically always messy, and he pushed some of the papers aside.

He saw, every time he blinked, his father ripping the drawer out of its place and digging through his past assignments, his past tests, everything that Judd had ever done in the past several months. He could see Dad throwing all the papers onto the desk while Mom tried to keep Philip and Piper calm, and he could see Dad finding receipts and not his passport, and he could see Dad running a shaking hand through his hair before running out of his room.

The clothes were all from his dresser, and Judd suspected that his parents were more worried about finding his passport and the money than actively destroying his room. Even his mattress looked like it had been moved, tipped over, and Judd had to close his eyes and curl his hands into his fists because he had made his parents' last night on Earth the closest they would ever come to hell.

(His dad told him, once, that whenever Judd was about four years old, he had gotten a really high fever, almost 104º, and Dad had wrapped him in a blanket, shoved him into the back of the SUV, and sped to the hospital, all while whispering a prayer.

Judd could have died, twelve years ago, because of the flu. The hospital almost hadn't been able to help him, and Dad told him that he had never been more scared in his life, that he had just spent the entire evening pacing the waiting room and saying that he would have given anything to take his place.

Now, Judd couldn't help but think that this was the most scared Dad had ever been.)

He shook his head and backed out of his room. It would need to be cleaned up later, of course, but there was more to do, more to get his mind off of this, off of the pain he had caused his family. His room would look the same in a few hours, nothing would change, and Judd fucking wished it would, he fucking wished he had changed for the better, that he would finally be able to see himself as someone his dad could be proud of, someone his mom could love, someone his siblings could look up to, and he fucking ruined it all, he ruined it all like he always did.

**Come to Me.**

Judd grit his teeth and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

While she waited at Lionel's house, she tried to fall asleep. Only whenever she would, she would see her parents, her dad hugging her, but she also saw him beating her. She saw Eddie begging her to become better, but she also saw him passing her a joint and a bottle of vodka. She saw her mother pleading with her to come to church, but she also saw her mother high and unable to take care of a crying Jeannie.

Jeannie was the only person Vicki could have believed when Christianity tore through her family.

Suffice to say, Vicki didn't get a whole lot of sleep.

Lionel stepped out of the kitchen with two bowls of cereal in hand. "I, uh, don't know how to cook, so this is the best I could do. We ran out of milk."

Vicki took the bowl from him. "I'm not hungry."

He shrugged and sat across from her. "I ain't either, but us not eating isn't gonna help anyone. Besides, doesn't matter how close the church is to my house, it's gonna be a decent walk, especially with the roads like they are." He lifted his spoon and shoveled some cereal into his mouth. "Besides, you already walked here from Prospect Gardens, you really should eat something."

She pressed her lips together. "Lionel –"

He held up a hand. "Vicki. I'm not budging on this. Just…eat something, it'll be good for you."

She carefully lifted the spoon to her mouth, and she was surprised to find that her hands were still shaking. "Lionel," she said, setting down her spoon. He glared at her. She picked it back up. "Do you– do you think things will get better?"

Lionel jabbed his spoon into his bowl. "I don't know. I really don't."

The landline rang.

* * *

What was heaven like?

It was the first question Judd encountered, the one that kept baring its face to him, and he didn't want to think about it – mostly because he was left on hell – but that was all he could find himself thinking about. He could picture golden light, brighter than the sun, and music, and celebration, freedom that no one had ever been able to fathom.

Judd still wanted his family _here_ because he was here, but he had been selfish for so long, and this was what they had longed for, the hope that they clung to with an iron fist. Who was he to hope for anything differently?

He nudged open his parents' door and stopped cold. There was nothing different. His mom's jewelry box was still open, probably where she had put up her wedding ring as she was getting ready for bed. Their bed was made, their clothes hung in the closet.

_Was I wrong? Are they still here?_ Judd hurried to their bathroom, looked around, felt the tip of his parents' toothbrushes and breathed a sigh of relief when it was still wet. _I will gladly take an ass-whooping any day over being alone._

But even as he ran outside their room and back downstairs, he knew that it was selfish of him, to hope that his parents weren't with God, weren't with their other children. Who was he to hope that his siblings escaped this but that his parents would have to suffer even more pain?

When he got to the living room, he realized he didn't have to worry about it.

The phone had dropped onto the ground sometime in the middle of the night, and it was still connected, the line still blinking to show that someone was still on the line. Based on the clothes, Dad was closer to the end table.

Judd took a step closer and picked up the phone. There was nobody on the other line. He hung up.

He tossed the phone into the air and caught it in his left hand. His head still pounded, still felt like someone was stabbing his brain, but he kept his eyes open and gently placed the phone back into its charging port.

As he set the phone back into its charging port, he found his dad's handwriting on a piece of paper. Flight times to London. The last time was incomplete.

Judd knew his parents were going to find him, were going to do everything they physically could to bring him back home, he knew that they were scared for him, but this? Finding his parents' clothes right next to each other, Dad's sleeves overlapping with Mom's?

He choked on a sob and fell to his knees.

All he wanted right now was to be kneeling in front of his parents, begging for their forgiveness, to make things right, resting his head in his parent's lap as they combed their fingers through his hair and reserved the lecture for another time. He was sixteen years old, and he thought he could do everything by himself, but he really couldn't, he was alone and he realized this _wasn't_ what he wanted. It wasn't what his family wanted.

Judd grabbed his dad's shirt and buried his face into the fabric. His father just wanted what was best for him, just wanted Judd to become a good man.

And what had Judd done? He had gotten hooked on pot, had driven drunk, had slept with women six years his senior. He had lied and stolen and run away, and he hadn't even given his family the decency of a handwritten note to say where he had gone. He thought–

He thought so many things before, but now he didn't think about anything except how much he missed his little brother and sister, how much he missed his parents, how much he didn't want to be by himself.

**You're not alone. Listen.**

Judd lifted his face from his father's shirt. He tossed it back onto the couch and rushed into the garage. Philip's bike was still resting against the wall. He grabbed it, took it outside, and started biking for the church.

There had to be someone else there. He couldn't be alone.

* * *

Vicki tripped over an uneven sidewalk and fell to the asphalt. "Ow!"

Lionel stopped and turned around, reaching a hand out to help her up. "Vicki, we're almost there."

She took his hand and let him pull her up. "You said that five minutes ago." She winced and brushed her hand over her knee. Pebbles of asphalt fell from her knee. "Are you sure you know where you're going?"

He bit his bottom lip and glanced over his shoulder. A man and a woman argued on the porch of another house. He didn't know if they were looting or if they were arguing over the whereabouts of their children. "I don't," he admitted, "but I've passed it often enough on the way to school. I think I'm going in the right direction."

She squinted at him and tested her weight on her bad leg. It still hurt, but she could manage until they got to the church. "Here." She pulled out her phone and typed in _New Hope Village Church_ into the maps app. "This is how I found you."

Lionel took her phone from her. "You need to charge your phone."

"I also need a fucking drink, and I'm not getting that anytime soon. We all have to do things we don't want to do."

He rolled his eyes, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her along behind him. She hobbled behind him and hoped that she wouldn't fall again.

It was so quiet without children around.

* * *

Ryan's eyes still stung, and he had no idea if it was because he was still crying or if it was from biking around into the wind for the past hour and a half. He knew Mr. Steele wasn't following him; at least, not anymore, and he loved Mr. Steele, he really did, but Mr. Steele was Raymie's dad and Raymie was gone. It was hard to deal with.

So Ryan gulped in air, slowed down, and stepped off his bike. Across the street, there was a little church.

It was Raymie's church.

Ryan set his bike down and collapsed onto the grass. He wanted to keep crying, but he was just so tired. He just wanted to lie onto the ground and curl up and fall asleep, and when he would wake up, the entire world would be okay again.

The world had to be okay again.

An older boy with dark brown hair biked down the street. The bike looked a little small for him, and as soon as he got to the church parking lot, he ditched the bike and ran inside.

Ryan guessed he lost someone. His only question was whether it was a person who died or if it was a person who disappeared.

He stood up, grabbed his bike, and pushed it across the street. It couldn't hurt to find out what that kid went looking for.

* * *

"Bruce! Bruce, is that you?"

Bruce Barnes took off his glasses and set his Bible on the table in the foyer. "Judd? Is– what are you doing here?"

Judd winced and lifted a hand to his head. "I–" He twisted his fingers in his hair and breathed shallowly. "Left behind."

Bruce tilted his head to the side and rested his hand on Judd's shoulder. "Migraine?"

Judd nodded quickly and winced again.

Bruce shook his head and sighed. "Did you drive here?"

Judd groaned and whispered, "No" so quietly that Bruce barely caught it. "No," Judd said, a bit stronger. "I, uh, I biked here. Philip's bike."

"I got a call last night from your parents. They were –"

"Really worried about me, I know." Judd opened his eyes, and Bruce saw the tears in his eyes for the first time. "I know. Got ninety-two calls and several hundred text messages while I was on the flight to London."

"Wh–" Bruce clamped his mouth shut. "Are you doing okay, Judd? How's your eye?"

Judd groaned again and rested his forehead against Bruce's shoulder. "I can't see out of my right eye, Bruce. You know– God, it hurts."

Bruce rubbed Judd's back. "Did you take your medicine when you got home, son?"

Judd shook his head, and the motion bunched the fabric on Bruce's shirt. "No. If– if I had taken my medicine, I wouldn't have stopped." He lifted his head and looked Bruce dead in the eyes. He looked so young, younger than his sixteen years. He looked like a boy, like Bruce's seven-year-old son. "I'd be dead right now if I'd taken my medicine."

Bruce exhaled shakily. "I, uh…I'm glad you didn't take it, then. You need to take care of yourself, though. I have some aspirin."

Judd twisted his fingers in Bruce's shirt. "Don't– don't leave me, Bruce, please, I– I'm sorry, I know I worried you and I know that everything's just gone to hell, and I'm sorry for not listening, not to you, not to my parents, and I'm sorry that I've been an ass to you –"

Bruce cupped the back of Judd's head. "Judd," he said firmly, "I want you to listen to me right now. I was left behind, too, and it wasn't so someone could give an explanation in this mess. I'm in the same boat you are."

Judd scrunched his face and leaned forward to weep onto Bruce's shoulder.

The door swung open again, and a young boy stood in the entryway, twisting his hands in the hem of his shirt. He looked tired and small, his eyes were rimmed with red, and he looked like he hadn't eaten all day.

Bruce continued to rub Judd's back but he lifted his head. "Can I help you, son?"

The young boy blinked at him and glanced around the foyer. "Me?"

Bruce nodded, and Judd stepped away, using his sleeve to swipe at his eyes.

The boy bit his bottom lip. "Uh…do- do you know what's happened? Like…why people disappeared?"

Judd lifted his head to look at the boy and took a shuddering breath, immediately turning his head to look away. "He looks so much like Philip," he whispered to Bruce.

Bruce patted Judd's shoulder. "Yeah, I know what's happened. There are two other kids coming to see us and talk to us. I'd like to wait until they get here."

Judd scrubbed a hand over his face. "Do– do you know when they're getting here?"

Bruce shook his head and gestured for the other boy to come closer. "Don't know. I think they're walking over here, and it's at least a mile of a walk. I assume they left as soon as I called them back, but I don't know for sure."

The boy took a step closer.

Bruce sighed again. "What's your name, son?"

The boy shrugged. "Ryan. Daley. Ryan Daley."

"Did you lose anyone, Ryan?"

Ryan nodded. He looked like he wanted to run. Judd carefully moved closer, and Bruce's heart twisted when he realized that Judd caught the runaway look in his eyes. Judd would know it better than anyone else.

"I lost–" Ryan's voice cracked. "My parents. They died."

Bruce shook his head. "No, they did–"

Ryan lifted his chin and glared at Judd. "They died. At least, my mom did. She was in a really bad car accident this morning. I got a call from a police officer. I don't know for sure about my dad. He was on a plane."

"Oh."

Judd sighed. "Hey, Ry, you want some hot chocolate? If you want marshmallows with it, you're out of luck, but the hot chocolate here is pretty good."

Ryan twisted his lips. "And we'll know what happened when the other two get here?"

Bruce smiled to himself as Judd led Ryan to the coffee station. "Yeah, Ry, we will. Bruce will explain everything to us in just a little bit. And tell ya what: I bet, if we look hard enough, we can find candy or goldfish somewhere around here."

Bruce grabbed his Bible and headed upstairs. "Judd, just call me when the other two get in. It should be a girl and a boy. I'll be in The Room."

When he got upstairs, and when he was by himself, he let himself cry. He was going to be doing a lot of that in the coming days, he realized.

* * *

Ryan stuck his hand into the box of animal crackers Judd had managed to procure and stuffed as many as he could into his mouth. Judd simply played with the straw in his cup of hot chocolate, staring straight ahead at the fireplace. A Bible verse was carved into the stone above it.

The door swung open again, and a redheaded girl stumbled through the front door, followed by a boy just barely taller than Ryan.

Judd looked up. "You guys here to see Bruce?"

The girl's mouth fell open, and she glanced at the boy she came with. "Uh–"

The boy nodded. "Yeah. Who are you guys?"

Judd studied the girl. She looked familiar, like a dream he'd had years ago, when things were better and when he still had hope. He stood and gestured for Ryan to follow. "I'm Judd, this is Ryan. I– My family used to go here. They disappeared. I came here to see if…anything was the same. Bruce is upstairs."

The girl fell into step next to him, Ryan and the other boy trailing on their heels. She tucked her hair behind her ear. "My parents used to go here, too."

Judd nodded slowly. "You need some rubbing alcohol to put on that knee. Don't want it to get infected."

She shrugged. "I'm –"

"V?" he said, lifting an eyebrow.

Her mouth fell open. "You're J?"

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. "Guilty, I suppose. Look, I–" he rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm sorry. For a lot of stuff."

"Well," she said, glancing behind her, "I guess I should apologize to you, too. My real name's Vicki, by the way."

The boy who came with Vicki tapped Judd's shoulder. "I'm Lionel, just in case you'd like to know."

Judd laughed. "Nice to meet ya, Lionel. The Room is this way. Bruce said he'd be there."

Vicki hugged herself. "'The Room,' huh? Sounds so ominous."

* * *

Introductions, exhausted faces, chins touching their chests and snapping up, crying, crying, crying.

Vicki Byrne was fifteen, and even though Judd kind of knew that, even though he knew that she was much younger than him when he had slept with her, he regretted it as much as he regretted running away. She told them about her lifestyle, about how she was already entering withdrawals and she was going to try and be better, that she was tired of numbing herself.

Lionel Washington was from a Christian home, much like Judd, had grown up hearing the same thing Judd had always heard. He was moments away from praying last night, he almost wasn't here, and he turned his face to Bruce and said, "I can't shake the feeling that God wanted me to wait. He wanted me, but He wanted me to wait. I don't know why."

Judd told them his story. Told them how he had run away, how he thought he was hot stuff, that he was independent and smart enough to make it on his own, but now that he was, he realized his mistake.

Ryan didn't speak beyond telling them his name and that his parents had died.

Bruce kept it short, told them that he had been the youth minister here for years, but he had never really believed it, never really cared for the Bible. He had led people to Christ, had prayed with teenagers and adults alike, had led conferences and graduated seminary, but he hadn't believed. He never took that last step, and though the same could be said for both Lionel and Judd, Bruce only knew Judd, so he turned to look at him and say, "Gotta say, Judd, I'm a little surprised to see you here."

Vicki squeezed Judd's hand in reassurance.

Judd cleared his throat. "I told you," he said hoarsely. "I thought I was the only person in the world who mattered. Everything I ever did, I did for myself."

He hung his head. Vicki still held his hand, and he knew it was just as much for her benefit as it was for his. He would let her hold his hand, and he would offer comfort to Ryan, and he would ask Lionel how he was doing.

He wasn't the only person in the world anymore.

* * *

She didn't tell Bruce about her brief desire to shove sleeping pills into her mouth so that she could fall asleep and never wake up again. She told them all about her lifestyle, her sex and her drugs and her drinking, and she felt filthy talking to them, she kept tugging on her crop top. No one had mentioned it, but she felt awkward in it.

She was fifteen, and she had spent her entire life trying to be older. Except now she had aged several years in a single night, and she wanted to be a fifteen-year-old again. She wanted to do what a fifteen-year-old would do.

Vicki squeezed Judd's hand again and pulled her hand away.

Bruce noticed and he nodded.

She had no idea what that meant. She just…needed someone, and Judd was the person she had known the longest, even if it was only by the name of J.

Vicki was tired of numbing herself, and though the pain pierced her soul, she felt more like a fool than anything else.

* * *

Lionel regretted his life. He regretted his decision to just go downstairs with André last night, instead of running up the stairs and talking to Clarice. He wouldn't be here right now if he had just run upstairs.

He meant it, when he said that he felt like God had made him wait. Lionel had no idea what God had in store, why God would tell him to wait, but he knew that God had.

Christians were supposed to lead, to take charge, but Lionel was just tired and sad, and he could still feel the light of heaven on his hand.

* * *

Ryan was confused. Everyone kept talking about church and God, as if either of those things had anything to do with the disappearances. All of them had lost their entire families, but Ryan was the only one whose parents had died and not disappeared.

Bruce told them it was God. Ryan didn't know.

He didn't know.

* * *

They all sat in the middle of The Room, all of them on the hard plastic chairs instead of the couches, and they considered Bruce's words. Judd and Vicki knew the truth; they knew what they had to do. But Judd's headache still pierced his head, and he would still gasp and lean forward, cradling part of his head in his hand. Vicki was still in her crop top and booty shorts, and she still reeked of alcohol and pot. She knew, she knew that Bruce was right, but why would God want her, especially out of everyone in this room?

"God doesn't care what you've done. Any of you," Bruce said, as if he had read her mind. "He just wants you to come home."

Lionel nodded slowly. "I already prayed. I…don't know if it worked or anything, but I just…I want to be used for God, you know?"

Bruce smiled and squeezed Lionel's shoulder. "Good to have you join the family, little brother."

Lionel squeezed Bruce's wrist.

Judd breathed deeply, his eyes still closed. "Bruce, I– I need time to think."

Vicki nodded. "Me, too. I– I know you're right, but I just…I can't do it right now."

Bruce looked like he had more to say about that. "Ryan? What about you?"

Ryan shook his head. "I just want my parents to be alive again."

And in that one sentence, Ryan said the thing that all of them had been thinking: They just wanted this nightmare to be over already.

* * *

He stared into the mirror, smoothing down his hair. His tie was perfect, his suit immaculate. He tilted his head, studied his reflection in the mirror.

There was a knock on the door. "Nicolae? They're ready for you."

A smile spread across Nicolae's face, and he adjusted his tie. "It is _my_ time now."


End file.
